


Devil to Pay

by gaelicspirit



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One month post Season 1. Matt had been so fixated on those looking to destroy the people of his city, he missed those looking to destroy him. Or, how the sins of the father are revisited on the son…and everyone the son loves.</p><p>“Seeing Matt like this – bruised and bloodied – it should seem to Foggy that his friend was broken and weak. But instead all he saw was power. Matt was pure, coiled power, nothing but bone, muscle, and skin out there fighting off the bad guys. Saving people from the darkness. Fighting for what he wanted: the people in his city safe from fear.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line.
> 
> So, this is my first foray into the Marvel universe. Have to hand it to Netflix: they revealed in me a bit of a surprising obsession with a certain blind, vigilante lawyer. I found myself drawn to Matt Murdock’s story and wanted to delve a bit deeper into some of what drives him, and not just as Daredevil. 
> 
> This story is based almost entirely in the recent TV-show universe, so apologies to those Daredevil & Marvel purists out there who detect something potentially amiss. I haven’t picked up a comic book since…well, let’s just say it’s been a while. I’ve taken a few artistic liberties with some of the details of the characters’ pasts. I hope you enjoy.

_“In my part of the country, when you meet an Irishman you find a first-rate gentleman; but these are worse than savages. They are too mean to swab hell’s kitchen.”_

-        Davy Crockett, 1873, referring to the New York slum called Five Points

**

Blood dripped from the gloves that protected Matt’s curled fists.

His shoulders rocked with the effort to breathe, his lungs working furiously to capture enough air to keep his body moving. He staggered slightly as he shoved the last attacker from the dais with the flat of his foot.

Everything stopped. Except the ticking.

Matt became still, tilting his chin just slightly, centering his focus on the sound. He still had time.

He could hear the groans of the men who were conscious, their bones rasping against each other as they tried in vain to regain their footing. He could hear their heartbeats, a cacophony of sound against the hammering current of the Hudson just outside the old church. He could hear their breathing, the blood in their veins, the scrape of movement of their bodies against the cement floor.

He stood on the crumbling dais, still as possible, ignoring his own crashing breath, his own rushed pulse, as he listened for just one heartbeat. A specific cadence, a rhythm he’d learned to pick out from a crowd years ago, just to reassure himself that there was balance in this world, that there was light in the darkness. It would be fast, adrenalin pushing blood rapidly through his system in reaction to the fear stimulus.

 _There_ …just, there. _Foggy_.

He was running, but he was out, away. He’d listened to Matt, for once, and got himself to safety. Matt could hear through the crumbling walls of the church and the distance between them the rattle of a loose muffler in a car that sped past Foggy and the digital tone of his friend making a call—

A mechanical tick once more drew Matt’s focus back to the interior of the empty church.

Plaster cracked and fell inside the walls from where bodies – his and others – had slammed against the crumbling surface. Chips of paint from the arched, once-ornate ceiling peeled slowly away and dangled above him as though the art was clinging to an edge of nothingness.

Amid the noise of the building, the breathing of men, the beating of hearts, there was the tick, a steady cadence that meant one thing: bomb. Matt drew a sharp breath, pain slicing across his torso, the sound of his bones – like old ships – distracting him a moment as he turned toward the ticking.

It wasn’t too far from him. He still had time. He could get it to the river and walk away. Foggy was safe; no one had been killed. He could still walk away, his soul intact.

_The roll-click of a .38 Special._

_An elevated heartrate._

It was all the warning he had before he twisted sharply to the right, barely avoiding the slam of the first bullet. His head swam slightly – a particularly unnerving fluctuation to the distorted dance of flames his echo-location tossed against the darkness – as he flipped his body around, dodging the second bullet. He heard the lead impact the plaster, digging deep furrows into the wall until their velocity was finally arrested.

“We’ll find Murdock,” Silke’s blood-soaked voice crawled up at Matt from the cement floor below.

“You don’t let me get to that bomb,” Matt growled, “you won’t be finding anyone.”

Silke laughed, then coughed, harsh and wet, and Matt knew the man was a handful of heartbeats away from his death, no matter what he did. “Don’t matter. Damn kid’s on borrowed time. Devil can’t protect him forever.”

The old mobster coughed again and Matt launched himself forward, using the crumbling angel sconces carved into the curved stone spines of the cathedral-like ceiling to propel himself over Silke and toward where he knew the bomb was stashed. Silke fired once more and this time Matt wasn’t able to twist away. He arched as far as he could, but the bullet struck just below his left collarbone, effectively knocking him out of the air as though his wings had been clipped.

He hit the floor, hard, air rushing from his lungs in a mass exodus and leaving him hollow, his weakened ribcage trembling beneath his too-thin skin. The suit protected him against blades and shielded him from the worst damage a fist could exact, but it was apparently _not_ bullet proof. He desperately drew air back into his body, his gasps echoing in the tomb-like church.

The bomb ticked on.

He still had time.

He heard movement in the center of the empty building – men groaning, climbing to their feet, stumbling free, escaping. Silke lay where he’d fallen, his breath slowing, his heartbeats sluggish. No one came after Matt, having seen him plucked from the air by a bullet. Using that to his advantage, Matt reached for the wall, his gloved hand sloughing away peeling chips of paint as he leaned heavily to his right, pulling himself up.

Matt’s low cry of pain was loud against his ears; he could feel the heat of the lead ball burning against the muscle of his shoulder. It sat heavy and foreign inside of him, bringing every ache, every bruise, every trail of copper-scented blood to the forefront of his awareness, making it nearly impossible to hear the ticking.

He staggered forward; he still had time.

“You’re just like him, y’know.”

Matt jerked to a halt, startled. He hadn’t heard him, so focused was he on finding the bomb. He hadn’t realized a portent of death was standing so close.

“You….”

Now that he was aware of him, Matt could hear Rosco Sweeney smile.

“Not as powerful as they say, are ya, kid?”

Matt swallowed. The Daredevil mask was suddenly dense and suffocating. The weight of the protective padding was heavy against his torso and back. The lining rubbed against his too-sensitive skin. He felt like Sweeney could see through the suit, could see _him_ , naked, bleeding, and afraid.

“Your Pop, yeah, he could take a beating,” Sweeney remembered. “Couldn’t take a bullet, though, could he?”

Matt said nothing, but felt his right hand curl into a tight fist. He couldn’t feel his left. Sweeney was blocking the ticking bomb; he was having trouble hearing it over the old gangster’s staggering heartbeat and staccato breathing.

“I knew it was you,” Sweeney continued. “Silke, he didn’t buy it, but I knew. Soon as I saw the papers about Fisk.”

“You don’t want to die? Leave.” Matt ordered. He focused his senses, seeking the sound that had drawn him into this confrontation with his father’s murderer.

 _There_ …he could hear it again, the ticking. It was getting faster.

“Nah, don’t think I will,” Sweeney said. “I was born in the Kitchen, and the Kitchen’s where I’ll die.”

Matt could sense it then, could hear death trapped inside the other man’s lungs, large and looming and eminent.

“That bomb—“

“Is gonna end Battlin’ Jack Murdock’s line,” Sweeney broke in, a strange, high laugh chasing the end of his words. “Finally.”

“ _Why_?” Matt couldn’t help but ask, feeling blood from his shoulder soak down along the inside of his suit. “You killed him. You ended it, all those years ago.”

“Nothin’ ended, kid,” Sweeney replied, his voice betraying every year he’d lost to hatred and the quest for revenge. “I been watching your Pop fight Creel for twenty years. Waitin’. Just…waitin’ until I could get back what he took from me.”

The words had edges, slicing Matt from the inside, a decades-old image of his father as seen through his nine-year-old eyes shimmering up to stand as real and alive before him as Sweeney. He swayed with the force of the memory, fighting to stay present. Stay focused on the bomb. The ticking was too fast. Matt felt the sound beat against the walls of the church, echoing inside his aching head.

“You won’t win.”

“Already have, kid,” Sweeney chuffed. “I’m taking you with me, and you’ll have to go knowing it won’t stop until everyone you love is as dead as you.”

Matt roared, lunging forward, his right hand at Sweeney’s trachea. “I’ll rip out your fuckin’ throat.”

“I believe you, Devil,” Sweeney rasped around Matt’s grip. “Too bad you’re too late.”

The ticking was fast, urgent.

It penetrated the rage that had all-but dismissed the pain waiting like a specter at the edges of Matt’s perception. He released Sweeney abruptly, casting his senses about for the location of the bomb, having already realized by the scent of the chemicals in the air that it was Semtex and would take out this ruined church and anyone still inside quite effectively.

It was too far away; he was out of time.

Turning from Sweeney, his pulse matching the cadence of the ticking he could hear over everything else around him, Matt ran. His ribs screamed at him, the bones cracking further as he found another gear. His shoulder felt strange and heavy, the bullet like a brand against nerve endings and strained muscles. He ran for the empty archway he could sense in front of him, the flames swimming around the curves in his perception, following the scent of the river, murky and polluted and safe.

There was a snap and a spark just as the ticking turned into a whine, high and demanding, piercing Matt’s ears just as the ground shook beneath him and the air around him was turned into a vacuum, pulling backward against his cheeks in a rush to fill the space the Semtex voided as it incinerated.

Matt felt the press of air first, followed quickly by intense heat and as he crossed the threshold to exit the church, a force knocked him from his feet and sent him tumbling toward the river’s edge midst chunks of plaster and pieces of wood and rebar.

He didn’t hear the roof of the church collapse in on itself.

He didn’t feel the scattered debris rain down around his body.

The world that had always been burning slipped to into the black and Matt Murdock swiftly followed.


	2. The Client

_Two Days Earlier_

Foggy knew the moment Matt walked through the door of Nelson & Murdock.

Not due to any extra-sensory perception – though, he wouldn’t mind picking up some of that skill simply as a by-product of being a superhero’s best friend – but because the energy in the room immediately shifted as it always seemed to do when Matt was around. It had been that way in law school, long before Foggy knew his friend to be anything different from every other guy.

Who just so happened to be blind.

Sitting in his office, his shades twisted open so that he could see Karen at her desk situated in the center of their small space, the prospective client across from him nervously wrapping a leather fob on her keychain around her fingers, Foggy felt the atmosphere grow lighter.

He glanced up from the notes he was taking and saw Karen’s shoulders drop, her pretty face relaxing into a smile as she tucked a strand of silky blonde hair behind her ears. Foggy couldn’t see their front door, but few people set Karen at ease so automatically. Not to mention, Foggy found himself taking his first easy breath since Matt had left him at Josie’s Bar the night before, tumbler of whiskey in hand and definite plans on drinking the eel.

It had been nearly a month since he’d found Matt bleeding to death on the floor of his apartment and in that time Foggy had found himself experiencing several stages of grief and acceptance at Mach 10. For all intents and purposes, their relationship was back on even ground. Except that now there were levels of worry Foggy hadn’t realized were possible for a human to experience.

Watching as Karen moved around her desk and followed Matt into his office, Foggy pushed his chair back.

“Would you excuse me a moment?” He glanced at the woman sitting coiled like a spring in the chair across from him. “My partner just arrived and I want to catch him up on a few things before I introduce you two.”

The woman nodded, the stilted movement throwing several curls across her forehead endearingly and causing Foggy’s heart to clench a bit as he thought of her predicament. Megan Sweeney embodied the reason he’d become a defense attorney: wrongfully accused, up against almost insurmountable odds. He smiled reassuringly at her, then moved around his desk to exit his office, closing the door behind him and striding quickly across the room where he practically filled the doorway of Matt’s office.

Matt stood just behind his desk, his cane held casually in front of him, lips tipped upward in a discrete smile as Karen caught him up on the day’s messages, looking every inch the respectable attorney. It still baffled Foggy how he’d managed to believe for so long that there was nothing else to Matt than what met the eye, not to mention how much Matt still used that perception to his advantage.

Now that Foggy knew what to look for, he could see constant tension in his friend’s posture he’d never noticed before. He saw the slight shift of Matt’s chin as he tilted his head to listen to something that was probably happening four blocks away. He saw how Matt’s hands tightened almost imperceptibly around the top of his cane until his knuckles were bloodless.

Foggy leaned against the doorframe, waiting until Karen paused for breath. Matt shifted his attention in Foggy’s direction, the afternoon sun sliding across his opaque glasses and exposing Foggy’s reflection back at him.

“Foggy.”

“Got good news, buddy,” Foggy greeted, unable to keep from smiling.

He knew Matt was aware they had a prospective client – and probably already knew if she were guilty as well as the name of her perfume – but he’d play along anyway. Because, why the hell not?

“Is that right?”

“Word’s getting out about us finding Hoffman and exposing Fisk,” Foggy told him, watching as Matt’s chin came up almost defensively at the sound of Fisk’s name. “This one wasn’t even a referral, either. Came in with the newspaper _in her hand_ , buddy.”

“That’s great,” Matt smiled – a genuine _this is why I went to law school_ mixed with an _I’m ready to eat something other than Ramen_ smile that Foggy couldn’t help but echo. “She have a case?”

“I was just getting to that when you came in,” Foggy said. “She’s got some mob guy after her for fifty grand – which she says she didn’t take, but knows who did.”

“Wait, mob guy?” Karen broke in. “This is a thing?”

From the corner of his eye, Foggy saw Matt shrug in unison with him. “Well, yeah,” Foggy said. “It’s not Hell’s Kitchen without the mob.”

“When you’ve lived here a bit longer, you’ll get it,” Matt said with a wry smile, his low voice softening any rebuke she might’ve felt at his words.

“She’s kind of skittish, so—“

“She leave a number?” Matt broke in.

Foggy frowned. “She gave Karen her info, yeah. Why?”

“’Cause I’m pretty sure she just left,” Matt informed him indicating their front door with a nod.

Foggy turned, bumping his shoulder against the doorframe in his haste, and crossed to his office even though he knew before he’d taken a step that Matt was right. _Of course_ Matt was right.

“Where’d she go, Matt?” Foggy shot over his shoulder as Matt followed Karen into the main room.

“He couldn’t possibly know that,” Karen responded.

But he could, Foggy knew. He could if he _focused_.

“Dammit.”

“Foggy, it’s okay,” Matt said, his voice a low hum in the air between them. “Karen’s got her info. We’ll call her back.”

“Why would she just leave?” Foggy tipped his hands up in question. “Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Break it down for me,” Matt suggested, turning back to his office and resting his cane against the inside of the doorway. “Karen, would you mind bringing in some coffee?”

“Sure you want me to?” Karen replied with a smirk. “I seem to remember you comparing it to motor oil.”

Matt’s mouth bounced a quick smile and Foggy knew that was all the encouragement Karen needed to head to their little kitchen for coffee. He hated that a little bit, how easy it was for Matt to get what he wanted from some people. How easy it was for Matt to get what he wanted from _him_.

Every once in a while, he wanted to see Matt have to fight for something he wanted.

As he dropped heavily into the old chair opposite Matt’s, Foggy sighed inwardly, silently lecturing himself. He may not have ever seen Matt fight for something he wanted, but he sure as hell had seen the results of a battle. He wasn’t going to get over the sight, the _smell_ of Matt’s blood pooling beneath him, smeared across his skin, more outside of him than in, for a very, _very_ long time.

“Foggy?”

Foggy brought his head up, realizing too late that he was clearly projecting his tangle of thoughts. Matt was facing him, the dark glasses masking his eyes, but Foggy knew they would be trained in his direction as well, if not directly on him. He’d watched Matt track to the sound of a voice plenty of times to know that he looked in the direction of someone’s mouth when they spoke.

“Don’t, Matt,” Foggy said quietly, tiredly.

“What’s wrong?”

There was no way he could tell his friend what he’d been thinking, but he also knew now that if he made up a bullshit answer, Matt would _know_. He supposed it made for a healthier friendship than he had with many – if not all – of his other friends, but it also made it hard to be human. Lying was survival for Christ’s sake. Everyone lied to get through the day. Matt most of all.

So, he turned it around. “You go out last night?”

Matt looked down and just like that Foggy felt like he’d been given a pass. Karen stepped into the room saving Matt from having to answer and simultaneously giving Foggy the exit from his dark thoughts he wasn’t able to find himself. He stood up and took a mug and the carafe of coffee from her, then handed the mug to Matt.

“Handle to the right,” he said automatically.

“Thanks,” Matt said, taking a sip. Foggy thought he hid the grimace rather well. “So, tell me about this potential client.”

“Megan Sweeney, forty-nine, lives on West 48th, near the park,” Karen began.

Matt shifted his attention to Foggy. “She told you something about fifty grand?”

Foggy nodded, then caught himself. “Sorry, I just nodded. She said that someone took fifty grand from her father something like…twenty years ago and someone in her father’s, uh…business, has decided it’s her and is pressing charges.”

“She knows who took it, though?”

“So she said.”

“Okay,” Matt leaned forward, hands wrapped around the coffee mug as though he couldn’t get warm. “Let’s poke around and see if there’s a case filed—“

“If?” Foggy frowned. “You think she’s lying?”

“I don’t know,” Matt soothed. “Just want to do our homework before we call her back. I mean…why’d she leave if she wasn’t hiding anything?”

“Maybe you scared her,” Foggy teased.

Matt just shook his head and shrugged out of his jacket. Foggy pushed himself out of his chair and went for his laptop. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Three hours later, they had practically less information than when they’d started. Matt had removed his tie and was listening to the Internet, Karen had left to make a run for Thai food take-out and Foggy’s mom had called, reminding him that he promised to come home for his brother’s High School graduation party.

“You should come with,” Foggy told Matt, tossing his phone on top of a stack of papers.

Matt smiled, one of his wistful, soft smiles that always tugged a bit a Foggy’s heart. He knew what his friend was going to say before he opened his mouth.

“You go ahead,” Matt said with a tilt of his head. “Your mom’ll love getting you all to herself.”

“My mom loves you, Matty,” Foggy insisted. “She’ll be disappointed if you don’t come.”

“She does _not_ love me,” Matt chuckled. “She thinks I stole you away from the family business.”

For the first time, Foggy was forced to think about the truth behind what Matt was telling him. It was something people said when they wanted out of an obligation, but now that he knew Matt was, basically, a human lie detector he had to wonder if his mom really did think Matt stole him away.

“Bring Marci,” Matt said suddenly.

Foggy couldn’t help it. His heart slammed so loud at the thought of Marci he could hear it himself. It had to be deafening to Matt.

“That’s just what I need,” Foggy groused, the back of his chair creaking as he leaned back. “My mom would be making wedding plans before we got our coats off and Marci would be a shapely smoke trail back to the train station.”

Matt chuckled with understanding. “You really don’t want to go alone?”

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” Foggy waved a dismissive hand in the air as the front door opened and Karen stepped inside, holding two plastic bags. “I’ll just have to get my story straight first.”

“Story about what?” Karen asked, sweeping into the room and setting the food on the desk.

“Foggy has to go home this weekend and remind his mom that being a lawyer is as honorable as being a butcher,” Matt said.

Karen rested sympathetic blue eyes on Foggy and he found himself wondering for the hundredth time if she would ever look at him the way she looked at Matt.

“Family’s tough,” she said.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Matt said as he felt along the desk for the container of noodles.

Foggy was impressed; Matt knew exactly where that container was, he was sure of it. His performance of a blind man was almost as remarkable as his ability to move around this city as though he could actually see.

“Everyone has family issues,” Karen said, sitting down and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Not if you don’t have any family,” Matt commented with a lifted shoulder.

Karen blinked up at him. “Wait, you don’t have _any_ family?”

“Just Foggy,” Matt grinned.

“God help him,” Foggy muttered.

“And now you,” Matt nodded toward Karen.

Karen blushed and Foggy was willing to bet his best suit Matt was listening to her heart rate skyrocket.

Around a mouthful of noodles, Foggy commented, “My dad told me once that he saw your dad take down Creel. I ever tell you that?”

Matt’s attention was directed at the container of noodles he held in his lap. He shook his head, his expression unreadable. Foggy would have given anything to see his eyes in that moment; even though they only saw a world on fire, they showed a great deal more than Matt would ever know.

“Your dad was a…a fighter?” Karen asked.

“Boxer,” Matt corrected, his low voice soft. “Battlin’ Jack Murdock.”

“Wait…I saw something…,” Karen set aside her container of food and began to flip through some of the print-outs she’d brought in earlier. “I didn’t think anything about it, because I mean how many Murdocks could there be in a place as Irish as Hell’s Kitchen….”

“Only one I know of,” Foggy said, sitting forward as Karen pulled a copy of a newspaper article from the pile and held it toward Matt.

“Is that your—“ she shifted and handed the paper to Foggy, “Matt’s dad?”

Foggy took the copy and peered at the grainy image. Two men dressed in ‘80’s styled suits were flanking a smaller man, draped in a white robe, sporting a serious shiner. To the far right of the picture stood another man, forehead laid open, blood down the side of his face, bare-chested.

“Foggy?” Matt’s voice sounded off, breathless.

“It’s an old newspaper image – probably came up when we did a google search on Megan Sweeney.” He sat forward, leaning his elbows on the desk. He’d never seen a picture of Matt’s dad before, but by the stance, the set of the jaw, the lift of the chin, he knew in his bones the man on the right was Jack Murdock.

He described the picture to his friend then said, “Caption reads, Rosco Sweeney, Bobby Price, James ‘Silke’ Santino, and,” he swallowed, “Jack Murdock pictured above.”

Matt was more than silent; he was utterly still.

“Matty?”

“What’s the article say?”

Foggy felt his stomach twist at the careful, _purposeful_ lack of inflection in Matt’s tone.

“It’s just a blurb about the match,” Foggy shook his head. “Nothing about your dad.”

For several moments no one said a word. Foggy saw Karen staring at Matt while trying _not_ to stare at Matt. He knew the feeling, but willed her not to say anything, not yet. She would want to offer comfort but there was something dangerous percolating beneath the tense lines of Matt’s posture and Foggy was…worried.

“I remember that fight,” Matt said finally. “He had a…a cut,” he motioned with his index finger toward his forehead.

“Yeah, you can see it in the picture,” Foggy told him.

“He threw it,” Matt said, still not looking up. “The fight. He was dominating and then just….”

Foggy didn’t know what to say to that.

“I stitched him up,” Matt revealed, finally sitting back, though he didn’t lift his head. “It was before my accident.”

“You…stitched up your dad when you were nine years old?” Karen said, incredulity pitching her voice high.

Matt didn’t respond to her; instead he tilted his chin toward Foggy. “I told you. That night, remember? First drink.”

Foggy nodded. “You said it was Scotch. That he didn’t want your hand to shake.”

“It was that fight,” Matt said. A tremulous smile bounced across his face for a fraction of a second before his mouth resumed its guard of any real feelings possibly escaping. “He was a tough guy, my dad.”

“How’d he die?” Karen asked softly.

A muscle rippled across Matt’s jaw and Foggy swore he could hear his friend swallow.

“He was killed,” Matt said, setting the container of food on his desk next to his laptop and pulling his glasses from his face. Foggy was surprised; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been without glasses in front of Karen. Pressing the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose, Matt sighed. “He was beaten and shot to death after the Creel fight.”

Karen’s little gasp cut straight into Foggy’s heart.

“Hey, so…,” Matt suddenly sat up so straight his spine audibly popped. “I think we’ve got enough for tonight. How about we pick this up in the morning?”

“Matty, I—“

“Foggy, it’s okay,” Matt shook his head. “Happened a long time ago.”

Karen looked over at Foggy and sighed, sadness like a visible weight in her pretty eyes. Foggy simply nodded at her and she began to gather the containers of food and carry them to the little alcove kitchen. Foggy stacked the copied papers that Matt wouldn’t be able to read, even with his heightened sense of touch, then moved the Braille print-outs closer to Matt’s laptop.

“You should go home, too,” Foggy told him. “It’s late.”

“I will,” Matt promised with a tight flinch that Foggy was sure he meant to be a smile.

Foggy straightened up to leave when he was stopped by Matt’s light grip on his wrist.

“Take Karen,” Matt instructed.

“I can get home okay,” Karen broke in from the doorway. She was belting her coat at her waist, watching them.

“To your mom’s,” Matt clarified.

“Mom’s?” Foggy repeated uncomprehendingly.

“You need family there,” Matt told him. “She’s family.”

Foggy simply blinked at him, wondering how it was Matt always knew exactly what words to use to make the impossible make sense.

“I’d love to go,” Karen said with a smile. “I haven’t had deli meat in years.”

Foggy grinned at that. “You’ll get your fill of cold cuts, I can promise you.” He looked down at where Matt was still seated behind his desk. “Feels weird, both of us leaving you, though.”

“Foggy, your folks moved to Brooklyn, not California,” Matt teased. “And it’s one day. I can handle things for one day.”

Foggy sighed. He knew Matt could more than handle things, but there was something simmering in the air around his friend, something that straddled the line between grief and rage. He had to admit that it wasn’t Matt he was truly worried about; it was Daredevil.

“Go,” Matt insisted. “I’ll head out in a bit.”

“Be careful,” Karen cautioned. “It’s dark out.”

Matt chuffed. “Doesn’t really matter to me.”

“It’s not you I’m thinking about,” Karen said, pausing at the door. “It’s all the lunatics who use the night as an excuse.”

Foggy didn’t miss Matt’s slight smile at that. After telling Karen he’d meet her at the station at noon the next day to take the train to his mother’s place, Foggy grabbed his coat, pausing once more at Matt’s doorway.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“I’m right behind you, I swear,” Matt said.

“This is one of those times I wish I could hear your heartbeat,” Foggy confessed, then turned away before Matt could formulate another lie.


	3. The Friend

Matt sat motionless for several minutes, waiting to hear Foggy’s footsteps retreat before leaning his elbows on the desk and dropping his head into the cradle of his hands. He felt the tremor in his fingers where they parted his thick hair in neat furrows. His elbows turned the papers spread out in front of him into an accordion with what seemed to be a deafening crackle.

His suit was too heavy, his collar too tight. He pressed the heels of his hands into his burning eye sockets, but couldn’t dismiss the flames. They surged, angry and hot, around nothing, setting his equilibrium off and forcing him to flatten his feet against the floor in an effort to not topple from his chair. Multiple voices, car alarms, the sharp bark of a laugh, music from someone’s radio, a soccer game being called in a thick Irish accent, a child crying….

It was all so loud. The world…the _world_ was loud.

Matt slid his hands – which felt stiff and cold, almost bloodless – from his eyes to his ears, pressing his palms against them tight enough his skin whimpered from the pressure. He could smell the Thai food Karen had dropped in the trash and his stomach twisted nauseatingly. The lingering scent of her perfume blended with the subtle aftershave Foggy had used since the day they’d met and Matt tried to latch on to that, the scent of home and family, but then a car with a damaged tailpipe roared past the window and the smell of the exhaust almost choked him.

He ducked his head lower, feeling his muscles tense painfully until he wanted to explode, wanted to punch something until he bled, until his knuckles were shredded and the pain forced a focus unlike any of Stick’s meditation techniques.

He knew he was trembling, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. The images from that night – the night of the Creel fight, of hearing the shot, of knowing… _knowing_ it was his dad, of smelling that blood… _so much blood_ , of feeling the shattered bone that had once been his father’s familiar face, the only thing that had anchored him in the sea of chaos and darkness – slammed into Matt until he was breathless.

The hand on his shoulder startled him into shoving himself back and away from his desk. Between one heartbeat and the next he was on his feet, one hand slapping away the touch, the other curled into a fist.

“Whoa! Hey! Holy shit, man! It’s me!”

“Foggy?” His voice sounded hoarse and frightened.

“Yeah, buddy.” Foggy was winded, Matt could hear. He focused on that. “I forgot my keys. You didn’t hear me?”

Matt licked his dry lips, dragging a trembling hand across his sweaty face. “N-no. I was…uh….”

“It looked like you were having a panic attack or something,” Foggy told him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Matt swallowed, taking a step backwards and pressing his spine against the wall, desperate for balance.

“Really. Nothing.” Foggy’s voice lost its note of sympathy. “We really going to do this? Again?”

Matt pressed his lips tight, searching for the words that would pacify his friend without freaking him out or making him leave because he _needed_ Foggy right where he was for the moment. He needed that anchor of familiar sounds and smells and the energy in the world that was simply _Foggy_ or he was going to fall into that pit again.

“Remember, uh…remember how I said that I had to focus? To be able to,” Matt rotated his hand in a gesture conveying _everything_ as much as he could.

“Use your superpowers?” Foggy filled in for him.

“Right,” Matt nodded, keeping his back to the wall and willing the rotation of the Earth to slow the hell down. “Well, I also have to focus to block everything out.”

“Everything?”

Matt licked his lips. “Noise, smells, the way my clothes feel.”

“You can… _feel_ your clothes?” Matt heard Foggy’s eyebrows bounce up.

“I feel…I feel _everything_ ,” Matt confessed, ashamed that his voice shook. Foggy didn’t reply for several long minutes and Matt focused on the sound of his friend’s heartbeat: steady, constant.

Matt had learned early on that heartbeats were like fingerprints. Once he detected someone’s particular cadence, he could find them in a crowd. He’d often caught himself looking for Claire’s when he was out in the city, wondering what it would be like to be around her when he wasn’t bleeding somewhere.

“I didn’t know,” Foggy said quietly. Matt ticked his head to the side in question. “I didn’t know that you had to work so hard to just… _be_ ,” Foggy clarified. “I thought you just got these…abilities.”

“Yeah, well,” Matt pushed carefully away from the wall and reached for the back of his chair. He was better, more focused, but he still felt shaky. “I guess they forgot to put that on the warning label of the toxic chemicals.”

“Bastards,” Foggy dead-panned. “We should sue. Since we can, now.”

Matt grinned gratefully toward his friend, appreciative of the banter. “I’m sure that would hold up in court, twenty years later.”

He sensed Foggy shrug. “Not sure what the statute of limitations is on illegally hauling toxic chemicals through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, nearly killing an old guy and blinding a kid.”

“That’s a tricky one,” Matt nodded, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, leaving his tie behind. He fumbled for his glasses, pushing them onto his face as he sensed Foggy turning to head through the door of his office and felt the world being to encroach once more. “Foggy?”

Foggy paused and turned. “Right here.”

“Don’t…uh,” Matt paused. He was so bad at this. Asking for help.

“I’m thirsty,” Foggy said, saving him once more. “Think I’ll head down to Josie’s for a few. Wanna join me?”

Matt felt his face relax as he grinned and knew from the shift in Foggy’s breathing that his friend was smiling back at him. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

As they left the office, Matt’s senses tunneled once more into the spaces he arranged in his head, allowing him to navigate the stairs and sidewalks easily. He didn’t even realize he’d left his cane until Foggy subtly pressed his elbow against Matt’s side, encouraging him to take hold as they entered Josie’s and not raise questioning eyebrows at a blind man walking through the crowded bar unaided.

They sat at one of the high-top tables. Josie set a bottle and two glasses in front of them without a word, but even Matt could detect the scowl on her craggy face.

“She loves me,” Foggy said, pouring two shots.

“Well, you _are_ delicious,” Matt teased, picking up his glass and downing his shot before Foggy could attempt something like a toast.

“I am,” Foggy agreed with a nod. “Too bad the only people who notice are blind or purposefully unavailable.”

“Karen?” Matt guessed, allowing Foggy to pour him more whiskey.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Should I make the blind joke this conversation is calling for?”

“Please don’t,” Foggy chuckled.

Matt heard him hiss at the burn of the alcohol and pushed his own glass forward. He typically didn’t like getting drunk; the spins, as Foggy called them, were ten times worse for him as his senses all rallied at once to compensate, but tonight felt strangely like a wake and he wanted to feel numb.

For once, just…feel _nothing_.

“It was that conversation about your dad, wasn’t it?” Foggy said suddenly. “That’s what made you…lose focus.”

Matt nodded, clenching his jaw. He heard Foggy pour him another shot and he swallowed it quickly, feeling the tingle of his fingertips. He rolled his lips against his teeth, savoring the malt flavor of the liquor, purposefully identifying the barely and spirit caramel used in this particular blend.

“You’re doing your whole, listening to the universe thing again,” Foggy said.

“My what?” Matt couldn’t stop the instant grin that relaxed his mouth in reaction to Foggy’s statement.

“That thing you do when you like…shift your head just a bit. I always thought it was a thing to get people’s attention,” Foggy said, downing another shot before he refilled Matt’s glass. “But now I get it’s you listening.”

Matt smiled.

“I’m sorry about your dad, Matt,” Foggy said quietly. Matt’s smile slid from his face. “I don’t think I ever said that to you before, but I am.”

“Thanks,” Matt replied, pressing a hand flat against the table, feeling the grain of the wood at the edge with the pad of his thumb, focusing on the grooves and the varnish and the places worn down by the many, many hands that had touched this spot over the years. “You were right; it was talking about him that…did it.”

“You don’t talk about him much,” Foggy noticed.

“I do…just not to you,” Matt told him, letting the liquor fill his belly, warm him from the inside out.

“Oh, thanks.”

Matt huffed a slight laugh. “No, that’s not…,” he reached up and scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. “Not what I meant. I talk about him to, uh…to my priest.”

“You have a priest?”

“Father Lantom.”

“Does he…y’know, _know_?”

Matt took another swallow of whiskey. His lips had started to feel numb, the sensation creeping across his cheeks. He knew he needed to stop soon or he wouldn’t be getting home on his own.

“I think.”

“Did you tell him?”

Matt shook his head. “Not in so many words.”

“This isn’t one of those conclusions people automatically jump to, Matty,” Foggy pointed out. “I mean, it’s not like assuming someone is straight or rich or a Democrat.”

Matt smiled again, but didn’t reply.

“He help you, this Lantom guy?”

Matt nodded. “He knew my dad, too. _Of_ him, anyway.”

“What happened?” Foggy asked quietly. “Did they ever get the guy who did it?”

Matt shook his head.

“Foggy, my dad, he…,” Matt paused, swallowing another mouthful of whiskey, having lost track of what number this was. “He was a great guy, a good man, and…he did what he had to do to make sure I was taken care of. I told you he never wanted me to be like him,” he sensed Foggy nodding, “but it wasn’t just because he didn’t want me to be a boxer. I didn’t really understand back then.”

“But you do now?”

“A lot of times, he’d throw a fight. He was damn good at taking a beating.”

“Must run in the family,” Foggy muttered.

Matt ignored him. “He made money on the bets and that money paid our rent and kept me fed. That’s what he didn’t want me to do. Not the fighting…the losing on purpose.”

“Yeah, but he won the match against Creel.”

Matt nodded, looking down. “Because of me,” he said, feeling his chest constrict, his eyes burning. The liquor brought his emotions too close to the surface. “He wanted me to uh…hear him win.”

Foggy was, thankfully, silent.

“Couple days before the match, two guys came into Fogwell’s to talk to my dad. They were across the room, other side of the ring, didn’t realize I could hear them, of course.”

“Of course.”

“They told him to drop in the fifth, and he…he refused. Said he had more important things to think about now.”

“You.”

Matt nodded. “But…they used that against him, said how’s he gonna take care of his family if he didn’t do this. I remember after, in the orphanage, I’d lay in bed and replay that conversation over and over…just thinking about how pissed those guys had to be when Dad took out Creel and lost all their—“

Matt stopped, his breath halting in his chest, his always-spinning mind freezing. He knocked over his empty glass as he clumsily moved his hands to grip the edge of the table, feeling the world tilt around him.

“Matt?”

“F-Foggy…what…what was her name? The client?”

He felt Foggy’s hand at his wrist, warm, heavy, his pulse picking up speed.

“Megan Sweeney.”

“Holy shit,” Matt exhaled.

“You’re kinda freaking me out a little here, buddy,” Foggy admitted. “Wanna share with the class?”

“The men, the ones at Fogwells,” Matt started. “One of them was Rosco Sweeney.”

“The guy from the newspaper picture?”

Matt nodded. “I heard dad say his name, just once, but I…I didn’t remember until now.”

“This puts a different spin on things,” Foggy agreed.

“We gotta get back to the—“

Matt started to slide from his stool, but realized belatedly that he’d grossly underestimated the amount of whiskey he’d inhaled in that short amount of time. The tilting world shifted a good ninety degrees the minute he stood and no amount of super-senses were enough to keep him from going all the way over.

Apparently, though, that was what best friends were for. With surprising agility, Foggy slipped around the table and caught him, one hand under his bicep, the other flat against his chest.

“Only place you’re going, my friend, is home.”

“Foggy, she’s—“

“Waited for twenty years,” Foggy broke in. “She can wait another day.”

Matt knew he wouldn’t be able to mount a convincing argument to the contrary if he couldn’t stand on his own, so he closed his mouth and let Foggy slap some money on the table, then guide him out into the chilly night. The cool air revived Matt a bit, but he could still feel the rotation of the Earth with every step.

“This city is so goddamned loud,” Matt muttered, vaguely aware that Foggy slid his arm across his shoulder and had his other arm wrapped around Matt’s waist. “People don’t know…. ‘s like everything blends and it’s all just…noise. Screaming and laughing and music and crying and just…noise.”

“I know, Matty,” Foggy said quietly.

But he didn’t know. How could he? He didn’t hear the pain of this city, the way people called out for someone, _anyone_ to help them. He didn’t hear all the people he couldn’t help, couldn’t save. He didn’t hear people dying in the alley, in the streets, in their beds, all because he wasn’t fast enough or strong enough.

“But you do, don’t you?”

Foggy’s question startled Matt. He hadn’t realized he’d said all of that out loud. He also hadn’t realized they were now standing outside his apartment, Foggy fumbling to get the keys from Matt’s pocket. Some superhero he was.

“Damn, Matt,” Foggy grunted, hauling him through the door and down the narrow hall. “For a skinny guy, you’re freakin’ heavy.”

“Sorry, Fog,” Matt mumbled. “’m sorry. I mean it.”

“Quit apologizing, you idiot. You’ve hauled my drunk ass home more times than I care to count.”

Foggy dropped him rather unceremoniously on his bed, then reached down for his shoes.

“Not ‘cause of that,” Matt said, licking his numb lips. “’m sorry for everything else.”

Foggy dropped his shoes next to each other and rolled Matt onto the bed. He carefully plucked Matt’s glasses from his face, then grabbed the end of his blanket and pulling it around Matt like a burrito. Matt burrowed in, desperate for the world to quiet down, needing nothing more than for it to slow its spin.

“Listen to me, Matty,” Foggy said quietly, wonderfully sensitive to the fact that anything louder might’ve caused Matt to whimper out loud. He laid a gentle hand on Matt’s shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, okay? You and me? We’re good. I promise you that.”

“’Kay.”

“Stay home tonight, will ya? No one likes a drunk vigilante.”

Matt nodded into the pillow.

“I’ll call you when Karen and I are on our way home from the Nelson House of Horror.”

“Thanks, Foggy,” Matt mumbled.

“Don’t worry about it,” Foggy said on a sigh. “You’ll probably save my sorry ass someday here soon to make up for it.”

Matt didn’t hear Foggy leave; he was too busy sliding into his personal hell of memories.

Nightmares were frequent, but Matt rarely remembered them. They were shapeless, faceless, mostly consisting of sounds and pain, but tonight he _remembered_. He saw his father’s smile, the blood on his face. He heard the smack of boxing gloves against a leather bag, against skin. He heard flesh hitting flesh, and he felt his body break, smelled blood and sweat and tasted tears and was a boy again kneeling in the rank alley, aware of the policeman standing sorrowfully behind him as his hands found his dad’s face and didn’t recognize it.

He woke with a start, his body salty with sweat, the suit he’d passed out in twisted and wrinkled around him and the feel of dried tears on his face. Groaning, Matt fumbled for the side table and slapped his alarm clock. The digitized voice informed him that it was 12:35 in the afternoon. Matt closed his eyes against the pain in his head silently cursing his own weakness.

“No. More. Whiskey.” He promised to his empty apartment. He’d take Nobu’s beating again over feeling this off-balance and nauseous. And he was really pretty sure his head was seconds away from slipping off its perch of his shoulders and rolling out into his living room.

As he slowly sat up in his bed, he decided he wanted to let it. He hadn’t slept this late in years; he usually handled his whiskey much better. He needed to shower and then meditate, get himself back on track. He couldn’t allow childhood trauma to knock him off his feet so thoroughly again.

With clumsy movements, Matt stripped out of his suit, letting the jacket fall in a pile on top of the slacks and dress shirt. He stumbled naked to his bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as his over-taxed system would allow. Standing under the steaming water, he felt himself fold back together, the familiar feel of the unscented soap bringing his over-sensitive skin under control.

As his fingers ghosted over the scars that littered his torso, Matt found himself thinking of Claire. She’d said she would be there whenever he needed to be patched up, but beyond that…she couldn’t afford to lose her heart to someone who flirted with death for a living. He understood, even if he didn’t want to.

Especially since he was pretty sure his heart was too damaged to offer anyone in return.

Stepping out from the shower, he heard his cell phone alerting him that Karen was calling. With a frown, he grabbed a towel and went back to his room, using his foot to find his phone in the pile of clothes next to his bed.

 _“Matt?”_ Karen called before he had a chance to say hello.

“I’m here.”

_“Have you talked to Foggy today?”_

Matt frowned, sinking down on his bed. “Aren’t you supposed to be with him?”

 _“That’s just it,”_ Karen said, sounding equal parts worried and exasperated. _“He never met me at the station. He’s not answering his phone. And there’s no one here at his apartment.”_

“You’re at his place?”

_“Yeah, and I can’t tell if he just didn’t come home last night or left really early or what.”_

Matt rubbed at his wet hair, feeling his skin tighten. “Okay, listen. We went out drinking last night and he brought me home. I’m sure he’s okay; he probably just…spaced that you were coming with him.” Matt heard the improbability of his words as they tumbled from his mouth, but he needed to calm Karen down before he did anything else. “How about you head back to your place and see if maybe you got your signals crossed?”

 _“Why isn’t he answering his phone, though?”_ Karen returned. _“He_ always _answers.”_

“I’ll find him, Karen.” Matt said, grabbing jeans and a T-shirt. “Try not to worry, okay?”

 _“Matt—“_ Karen’s breath hitched. _“It’s…Foggy, y’know?”_

“I know. Listen, go back to your apartment. I’ll call when I find him. I’m sure it’s just a weird misunderstanding.”

_“Okay.”_

Shoving down his immediate sense of panic, Matt hung up the phone and finished dressing. He found his old leather jacket and messenger bag, then went to the closet where he stored his dad’s footlocker. Regardless of what he told Karen, something wasn’t sitting right with him and he wanted to have everything – even the suit – with him that he might need.

A spare cane in hand and his burner phone tucked into his pocket, he headed out toward their office. If Foggy wasn’t at his apartment there was a good chance he’d gone to the office before meeting Karen and got caught up in something. On the way, Matt called Foggy’s mom and received an earful of angry Nelson for his troubles. Clearly, Foggy wasn’t there either, though Mrs. Nelson was certain that was Matt’s fault.

The moment he reached the office, Matt knew something was wrong. He could smell a strange, chemical-like odor in the air just outside their door. Once inside, the smell was strong enough to bring his whiskey-induced headache back in force.

“Chloroform?”

Dropping his messenger bag and cane inside the doorway, Matt moved over to a window and shoved it open, then turned and took stock of their office, reaching out for something amiss. Foggy had been there earlier; he could smell the other man’s aftershave subtly under the strong chemicals. Matt remembered that he’d returned last night after having forgotten his keys; with Matt’s mini freak-out session and their subsequent visit to Josie’s, he must not have remembered to grab them.

Matt moved toward Foggy’s office and stopped in the doorway, his senses on overload. Whatever happened, it was swift and violent. He could smell blood, though not much, plaster and paint…or rather paint thinner. Whoever had confronted Foggy wasn’t a professional, but sometimes that was worse, Matt knew.

Desperation breeds carelessness and one wrong move could kill a person as quickly as a trained assassin.

Stretching out, focusing, he listened for the distinctive sound of Foggy’s heartbeat. There were too many people, too many lives; it was a sea of humanity and his friend was adrift out there in it. Leaning his hands on Foggy’s desk, Matt forced himself to breathe slow and think.

“What do you know?” He asked himself.

A new client showed up yesterday _with the newspaper in her hand_ , Foggy had said. She’d discovered them because of their involvement with putting Fisk behind bars. Was this connected to Fisk?

“No, too sloppy,” Matt shook his head. Anyone Fisk would send after them would have simply left a body behind.

The client’s name was Megan Sweeney. Matt brought his head up. _Sweeney_. She’d left before he’d had a chance to meet her. Matt shifted back through his memory of the night before, concentrating on the sounds he’d catalogued and dismissed as nothing, sifting through them for some nugget that might lead to Foggy.

Karen had been telling him about the messages; he moved mentally past her, focusing on the other office, Foggy’s office, where he heard Foggy telling the woman he wanted to catch his partner up on a few things before he introduced them. Foggy exited his office and came across the way, but the woman…Matt tightened his focus, forcing himself to think through the headache. The woman made a phone call.

_“It’s him. Yes, I’m sure. I can’t now, there are too many people. I’ll meet you at the church.”_

Matt took a deep breath, as though breaking the surface after being submerged for several minutes. He was slightly dizzy and gripped the edge of Foggy’s desk for balance. Megan Sweeney was connected to Rosco, Matt was sure of it. She hadn’t been there for a case; she’d been there for him. And Foggy had gotten caught up in it.

His jaw tight with a slowly simmering rage, Matt grabbed Foggy’s phone and called Karen. He hated to bring her into this, but he wasn’t going to be able to find Foggy on his own. He needed help, and there was no one he knew who was quite as tenacious as Karen Page. Especially when it came to someone she cared about.

After explaining what he needed her to find, Matt shrugged out of his leather jacket and grabbed his messenger bag. The sun was still several hours from setting, but this time, the Devil wasn’t waiting for darkness to dance across the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen.


	4. The Hero

Foggy Nelson would not call himself a brave man.

Still, he was hard-pressed to name anyone – his best friend not withstanding – who could claim bravery in the face of Taser rods and chloroform. He had yet to cry and the screaming was out of his control: it was simply impossible to stay silent when electricity was ramming through soft tissue.

He was fairly certain that the Tasers hadn’t done any real, lasting damage, but what the hell did he know about Tasers? He was just a kid from Hell’s Kitchen who went to law school instead of becoming a butcher. Who also had a best friend who apparently had a knack for _really_ pissing people off.

Last night had been the longest, _coldest_ night in Foggy’s recent memory. After depositing Matt at his apartment, he’d remembered that he had no way of getting into his place since he’d left his keys at the office. He’d been _this close_ to saying screw it and returning to crash out on Matt’s couch, but he knew he had to get cleaned up for his mom’s, so he’d returned to fetch his keys and surprised what was clearly a break-in, though even several hours later Foggy had no idea what they’d been searching for.

He’d woken slumped to his side, hands bound behind him, feet tied at the ankles, a horrendous headache and the taste of vomit in his mouth. He didn’t remember getting sick, but the evidence was there. It had taken him several confused, emotional moments to realize that not only was he not alone, but he was no longer in their office. He’d been taken to an abandoned church. A scaffolding held court in the center of the empty sanctuary as though restoration had been started, but never finished and several industrial-sized paint buckets were strewn across a large, white tarp.

It had been just before dawn, and as Foggy had sat up he’d seen that there were at least six other men sitting or standing, each with some sort of weapon. Across the room, two older men – both with stooped shoulders and white hair – stood conversing with a woman. Her back was to him, but when Foggy shifted she turned at the noise.

“Son of a bitch,” Foggy breathed blinking groggily.

Megan Sweeney moved forward, pausing right in front of him and planting a boot on one of the overturned paint buckets.

“You’ve got that a little backwards, kid,” she said, and all signs of the anxiety and nervousness she’d displayed in the office were gone. “ _I’m_ the bitch.”

“I’m starting to get that,” Foggy muttered, wincing. “What the hell do you want with me?”

“Nothing,” Megan replied, straightening up. “We don’t want _you_ at all.”

“Uh…,” Foggy frowned, watching as the two older men began to move closer. “So…why am I here, then?”

“Wrong place, right time,” Megan replied. “As it turns out, we can use you, so don’t worry.”

“Really wasn’t worried about that,” Foggy replied, his eyes skipping to the taller of the two men. There was something familiar about.... “Holy shit,” he breathed. “This is about Matt, isn’t it?”

Megan’s smile was a cruel twist of her thin lips. “So it can think for itself.”

“You’re Rosco Sweeney,” Foggy accused. _Stop talking, Foggy, just stop. talking._ His inner monologue strangely seemed to speak to him in Matt’s voice. He looked over at Megan. “You were gonna kidnap a blind guy?”

Megan narrowed her eyes at him, the expression shifting her face from tired to mean. “You see this place around you? All this work? This was us, going legit.” She swept her hand to the side to encompass one of the older men, who looked incredibly like her. “This was us…contributing to the history of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Rebuilding a church,” Foggy stated, trying to bring the threads together.

“May have started out a church,” Rosco Sweeney said with a dry chuckle, “but it was going to end up a place for fighters. Good fighters…who follow directions.”

“This wasn’t about fifty grand at all.” Foggy squirmed slightly, trying to alleviate the pressure on his wrists.

“Oh, it was,” Rosco said. “With interest.”

Megan moved forward and placed her boot on the inside of Foggy’s knee, pressing it uncomfortably to the side. Foggy bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning. He glared up at her narrow face.

“See…we lost our bankroll in the Battle for New York,” Megan told him. “Building fell on him.”

“How’s that Matt’s problem?” Foggy grunted.

“Your friend owes us,” Megan sneered. “And just like with his old man, we plan on cashing in.”

“That was…,” Foggy sputtered a bit as Megan increased the weight on his knee, “twenty years ago! Why are you coming for him now?”

“No good coming for some kid,” Rosco spoke up. “Better to wait until the man has something to lose. Besides,” he coughed wetly into his gnarled fist, “helps to have incentive.” He coughed again and the smaller man, who had stayed silent during the whole exchange, took his arm and led him away.

“I can’t believe I felt sorry for you,” Foggy spat at Megan.

With a smirk, Megan removed her foot and unceremoniously shoved the end of a Taser rod in his gut; the world grayed out as his screams bounced against the crumbling curves of the old building. Foggy lost a fair bit of time after that.

When next he woke, it was well into the day and he really had to pee. He was a little surprised that the Taser rod hadn’t taken care of that for him – surprised and exceedingly grateful. Megan allowed his feet to be untied so that he could head to the edge of the empty church, but resisted permitting his hands to be unbound.

“Seriously? You ever try doing this hands-free?” Foggy asked her.

Megan looked at the two armed men who guarded him and both shook their heads. Clearly mercenaries drew the line at helping another man pee. She untied his hands, but stood with a knife at his back until he was finished. Foggy might not be brave, but he was smart, and he knew how to use his fear to his advantage.

He played the meek, defeated captive as Megan forced him back to the spot against the largest of the central pillars, near two of the overturned paint buckets, and when he sat she tied his hands in front of him. Foggy ignored his dry mouth and growling stomach, trying to determine what the trio of the two old men and Megan were discussing across the way.

 _Right now would be an awesome time to have your super-hearing, Matty_.

He tried to determine what time of day it was, but the light was all wrong. Best guess was late afternoon. He had seen the Hudson to the west of them when he’d gone out for his pee break and the sun’s rays had just started to slant across the water. Megan’s loud curse brought attention back to them and he saw Rosco bending at the waist as he coughed, the smaller man resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Just get the explosives ready,” Megan shouted at them. “He’ll be here before I get back.”

Foggy swallowed. _Explosives_? This did not sound good.

“You guys know what they’re planning?” Foggy whispered to one of the men guarding him.

“Shut up,” came the terse reply and Foggy was shown the business end of a Taser rod.

He raised his bound hands. “No, no, I’m good. You’re right. Sorry.”

Sitting as still as possible, Foggy tried to focus in on the low conversations around him. He realized that while Matt may have to focus due to hearing too much, the same practice was useful if the person wasn’t standing terribly far away. Through stilted phrases and catching every other word, Foggy realized that the plan was as simple and as terrible as he’d feared: using him a bait, drawing Matt to the church, and then blowing them all to kingdom come – after the mercenaries escaped, of course.

Foggy sat in miserable silence as the shadows grew longer and the guards grew restless. He didn’t know where Megan Sweeney had gone, but his imagination tried valiantly to fill in the gaps of knowledge. He kept his eyes on the two older men who had been conferring with Megan, trying to figure out exactly what they were going to get out of this deal. Megan had come into the office over a matter of fifty grand…if they blew Matt up, how were they planning on getting their money? Insurance on the building?

It wasn’t until the sun slipped beneath the horizon and Foggy saw the first guard drop that he realized why their plan hadn’t terrified him. It had one primary flaw: _Matt_. There was no way his friend was going to allow them to trap him and kill him; he hadn’t survived this long with the world the way it was to be defeated by a couple of old mobsters and a crazy woman.

He didn’t know how Matt had found him – possibly due to Megan’s purposeful planning, possibly due to his best friend having super-honed senses, he didn’t care. Foggy never saw what hit the first guard, but when he collapsed with barely a sound, Foggy knew Matt was there. His entire body breathed a sigh of relief.

The only time Foggy had ever seen Matt in action as the vigilante, it had been in news footage – and pre-red suit. When he felt the breath against his cheek from the side of the pillar, Foggy didn't want to turn his head. Part of him was afraid to see Matt this way, to see him as the Daredevil, and part of him was desperate with curiosity.

“I’m here,” Matt said, his voice pitched low and dangerous. “Don’t say anything.”

Foggy nodded uncertainly, forgetting entirely that his friend might not be able to pick up on such a nuance.

“I’m going to untie you and when I say, I want you to head for the Hudson.”

Foggy swallowed nervously; the downed guard still hadn’t been noticed, but he knew it was purely thanks to the night shadows shifting through the interior of the old church.

“Breathe,” Matt said in his ear. Foggy obediently took a shaky breath, wondering how loud his slamming heartbeat had to be to Matt right now. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Foggy nodded again and held still as Matt slipped something into his hands. He tightened his grip around the object and realized it was a phone.

“You get clear, call for help.”

“What about you?” Foggy couldn’t help but ask.

He didn’t realize how quietly Matt had been talking until the sound of his voice seemed to split the silence around him, drawing the attention of the guard nearest him. Before Foggy could think of what to say, Matt was a blur of motion next to him. The guard lifted his weapon, but Matt danced up the pillar, flipping his body over the top of the guard and grabbing the barrel of his weapon on the way down. He didn’t pause, merely used the butt of the weapon as a club against the guard’s head, felling him.

“Foggy. Go.” Matt barked at him, looking every inch the devil in the red, reinforced suit, the mask covering his sightless eyes, the horns casting tiny shadows from the harbor lights.

Foggy scrambled to his feet, his hands still bound, the cell phone clutched tightly, and began to back away. He couldn’t stop staring at this person who was also Matt Murdock. Guards came at him, in pairs, and Matt moved like water, slamming his forearm into a throat, flipping away from a bullet that cut into another, punching a third so hard Foggy saw the man’s flesh ripple with the impact.

Matt seemed to _see_ all around him, moving just seconds before he was struck, kicking back to shove an attacker away. The power behind his attack shocked Foggy. He’d seen his friend viciously work over a heavy bag at Fogwell’s gym, grunts of effort chasing the sound of fists hitting leather, but seeing that same force exacted upon another person was staggering. He didn't know how anyone got close enough to take Matt down. The man was _bad ass_.

But not super-human.

“Look out!” Foggy called, seconds too late as one of the bigger guards swung a discarded piece of metal scaffolding and cracked Matt soundly across the side of the head.

Matt staggered, going to a knee and another guard pressed his advantage, moving in and kicking Matt viciously in the side. Matt’s body flipped and he landed on his back as two other guards moved in, using pipe, boots, and fists on the downed vigilante. Foggy heard Matt cry out with a few of the harder impacts and knew couldn’t just stand there and watch his friend take what promised to be the beating of his life.

He shoved the phone in his pocket and found a broken piece of piping, rubbing at his bindings, working the ropes loose. He cast a look over his shoulder every few seconds, trying to see if Matt was getting up or was still at the bottom of the pile. He couldn’t see anything aside from the three guards and felt panic rise up in his throat; he was _not_ going to be the reason Matt was killed. No frigging way.

When he heard the roar, he stopped rubbing at his ropes and gaped in disbelief as Matt kicked out, launching one of his attackers away, the man’s body slamming hard enough into the plaster to dent it. That seemed to give Matt a second wind and with a flip, he was once more on his feet, his fists savagely pummeling a guard’s face.

Using the scaffolding to his advantage, Matt swiftly scrambled up the layers of metal pipes, then dropped onto two of the other guards – one of whom took severe exception to such treatment and slammed Matt against the crumbling plaster wall hard enough that pieces of the wall fell away.

Foggy _felt_ that hit as Matt cried out in pain, but it barely slowed him.

Foggy resumed his rubbing, the ropes almost loose, as Matt took out two other guards, his gloved fists bloody, his breath ragged and rough, his body pure motion. Foggy felt his ropes give as Matt was slammed against another wall, using the impact as momentum to shove the guard to the floor. Moving toward one of the pipes left discarded on the floor, Foggy was inches away from helping Matt wrap up this mess when he felt an arm snake around his neck from behind and the cold eye of a pistol pressed against his temple.

In the chaos of the fight, Matt suddenly went completely still. Foggy blinked, both from the shock of the weapon on his temple and from seeing his friend go from exacting punishment to being motionless in a heartbeat.

And then it hit him: _his_ _heartbeat_. Matt had to have been listening for it and when Foggy felt the barrel of the gun, it had spiked. It was _racing_ right now, and Foggy knew Matt heard.

Body taut, Matt turned, facing them. Foggy could see blood on the side of his face, running down his jaw from a wound hidden beneath his mask. His lip was bleeding, and he was breathing fast and rough from both exertion and pain.

“You’re gonna want to let him go,” Matt said, and Foggy barely recognized his voice.

It wasn’t the voice of the man he’d dumped drunk and boneless into his bed the night before. This was a different person entirely. A dangerous person.

“That’s where you’re wrong, pal,” the man holding Foggy said. He cocked the hammer back on the gun and Foggy felt his gut turn to liquid.

“Foggy,” Matt – _Daredevil_ – said. Foggy found himself zeroing in on his friend’s mouth, watching his lips move as he handed out orders. “When I say, I want you to run. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Foggy squeaked. Anything else was impossible at this point.

“He ain’t getting a chance to ru—“

The man never finished his sentence. With shocking accuracy, Matt threw one of the two sticks held in a holster on his thigh, hitting the man in the throat, knocking him off balance and sending his aim sideways. Foggy heard the weapon discharge, but over that he knew Matt had told him to run. He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. He just _ran_.

As he breached the opening toward the Hudson, he glanced back and saw Matt perched on the crumbling dais, blood dripping from his fists, shoulders rocking from the effort it took to breathe. He didn’t stop; if Matt was going to get out of that church in one piece, he couldn’t also be protecting Foggy, but when he _did_ get out, Foggy knew he was going to need help. He made it to the road and grabbed the phone Matt had given him.

It took him a moment to register the significance of the fact that he was holding Matt’s burner phone in his hand. Matt had known he was going to need help, too. That, or he was afraid Foggy would because he’d basically instructed him to call Claire.

_“And here I thought that suit was doing such a fine job.”_

“Claire? It’s Foggy.”

There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone.

 _“Where’s Matt_?”

“He’s in trouble,” Foggy said. “Somebody grabbed me to get to him, but Daredevil showed up instead and kicked some _serious_ ass but he’s stuck down there with them and—“

 _“Whoa, whoa, Foggy, back up a step,”_ Claire said, and Foggy could hear her moving around as she spoke. _“Who’s stuck?”_

Foggy realized he’d separated Matt’s identities into two people in his rambling explanation. “He got me out of there, but he’s hurt and he’s not out of there yet.”

_“Where are you?”_

“Uh…,” Foggy turned in a tight circle, looking for street signs. “Outside an old church on 12th and 44th. By the river.”

_“Jesus, that’s my neighborhood.”_

“Listen, he wouldn’t have told me to call you if—“

The explosion sent Foggy staggering back, his shoulder bouncing against a light pole. The phone and Claire momentarily forgotten, he looked back at the church in time to see a fireball erupt and the roof collapse inward, a great plume of dust and debris shooting from what remained of the structure.

“Oh, my God, Matt.”

 _“Foggy!”_ Claire was screaming at him from the phone. _“What the hell was that?”_

“The ch-church,” Foggy stammered, still staring, uncomprehending. _Explosives_. They’d said explosives. He just never thought…. “The church just blew up.”

_“Blew up?! Was Matt still inside?”_

“I don’t…don’t know.” Foggy felt his hands and face going numb, his ears buzzing and the world tunneling to a strange grey color.

_“Foggy? Foggy.”_

He heard her voice like a tiny squeak in his ear as he sank slowly to sit on the concrete, his legs trembling too much to hold him up.

“ _Franklin Nelson you listen to me right now!”_ Claire bellowed.

That got his attention. “He told you my name?”

_“I googled you. Listen to me, are you listening?”_

Foggy nodded. Claire must have reasoned that because she plowed forward. _“I will be there in five minutes. You need to see if you can find Matt, okay? Explosion like that, police and fire will be there soon and if they find him first—“_

“Yeah, okay, I got it.” He took a shallow breath. Using the light pole he’d backed into, he pulled himself to his feet.

 _“Keep this phone with you, just in case.”_ And she was gone.

Just like that, Foggy was standing alone in a disaster site, his best friend somewhere in the middle of the chaos. His dress shoes slipped on the crumbling remains of the old church as he made his way through the silt-laden air, flames surprisingly few from the interior of the church. He found a way around the building toward the river, several other smaller explosions sounding from inside the church – the paint, he reasoned – causing him to flinch and duck. He didn’t have a clue where to start. The dais he’d last seen Matt standing on, all red-suited and dangerous, was nothing more than a pile of dust among weak flames.

There were bodies in the rubble, Foggy could tell, but none of them were wearing red. He cast about, staring out toward the river.

“Matt!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “Matty!”

Five minutes apparently became two because Claire was the one to respond to his call.

“Foggy!”

“Here,” he waved to her. Seeing her emerge from the dust and smoke toward him felt surreal; the last time he’d seen her was when he’d discovered Matt’s secret. She was part of that – the secret, the discovery, all of it.

“Did you find him?”

Foggy shook his head, coughing from the smoke. It blew toward them and burned his eyes until for a moment all he could see were the dancing flames from inside the church. _This is what you see…every day, all the time. A world on fire._

“Matt!” Claire called, her dark hair tied back, a duffel over her shoulder, presumably full of all things that would save Matt’s life.

Foggy simply stared at her. He knew she’d found Matt in a dumpster, half-dead, and had saved him more than once, but…why? What made her keep coming back? What made her willing to live with this fear, this dread, this weight—

“Oh, my God, there he is,” she breathed.

And then Foggy was moving, following her lead, close to the edge of the river. When he saw Matt’s crumpled body, the first thought that came to him was that Matt had almost made it to the river. If he’d just made it to the river, he would have been okay.

Foggy dropped to his knees and as gently as he could – remembering how hard it had been for Matt to block out the sensations that assaulted him the night before – he rolled Matt to his back. His friend was completely unresponsive and there was blood on Foggy’s hand from where he touched him. Claire reached up and peeled back the Daredevil mask to get a better look.

“Oh, Jesus, Matt,” she breathed.

Foggy could see blood covering the side of his friend’s face and more staining his neck where it had spilled from his ears. He didn’t know what to worry about first.

“We have to get him out of here,” Claire said.

Foggy hoped to hell the woman was going to suggest a hospital. Apparently she thought and dismissed the same thing, because she looked up at him with anguished eyes.

“We can’t, Foggy,” she whispered. “Not like this. Even if they didn’t arrest him, this would be over and that would….”

“It would kill him,” Foggy said in a tight, choked voice. “Where then?”

“My place is just down the block. Can we carry him?”

“A whole block?” Foggy bleated, pressing a hand against his sore, Taser-burned chest.

“We have to do something; the cops’ll be here any minute and they’ll find him.”

“You don’t think it’s gonna look suspicious, two people carrying the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen down the street?” Foggy stared at her tense features, desperate for some kind of miracle.

“Let us help.”

The man’s voice came out of the dark and made Foggy jerk violently enough his motion caused Matt to groan in response. Foggy looked up and saw to his utter amazement that there were four people – three men and a woman – standing just off the edge of the debris field. He should have realized the explosion would quickly call people from their homes.

“He’s hurt pretty bad,” Claire said, slipping the mask back into place. Foggy was fairly certain it was dark enough – even with the light from the fire – that none of those gathered had gotten a good look at Matt’s face.

“Can you fix him?” One man asked.

Claire nodded. “I have before.”

“Dude saved my sister,” the man said.

“Saved my boy,” said another.

“He saved me,” said a woman, stepping in to the light from the fires. “Please, let us help him.”

Foggy found that his face was wet – tears pulled from the smoke or from the strangers of Hell’s Kitchen stepping out from the shadows to carry the man who’d saved them to safety, he didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter. Matt was going to get help and that’s all Foggy cared about.

“Careful,” Claire instructed as the four strangers flanked Matt’s broken body. “Watch his head.”

“He’s smaller than I thought,” murmured the man whose boy had been saved.

Making a sort of net with their arms, the people of Hell’s Kitchen lifted Matt from the ground and followed Claire around the rubble from the church in the opposite direction from where the sirens were approaching. Foggy followed the procession, never taking his eyes from Matt, hoping his friend didn’t wake until they were safely inside.

“He don’t weigh nothin’” said the woman. “How’s he do all that fightin’?”

“He’s strong,” Foggy choked out, unable to banish the image of Matt’s tear-streaked face as he said, _this city needs me in that mask_ , as he watched them carry Matt to safety.

He’d been right. _Dammit_ , he’d been right.

Once at Claire’s apartment building, the group had to downsize as they all couldn’t fit up the stairs. The largest man there, who’d been the first to step forward, shifted Matt’s weight against him, the red Daredevil suit looking completely incongruous in the arms of a dock worker. Claire looked at the rest.

“You can’t…please don’t say anything about this,” she begged.

“Lady, you think we’d ‘ve helped if we wanted him found out?” the woman scoffed. “You just fix him up.”

With that, they faded into the shadows as Foggy stared in amazement. Claire turned, not wasting more time, and led the way to her fifth floor walk-up, opening the door to the apartment so that the man could carry Matt through. Foggy tried not to stare at the sight of Matt – _Daredevil_ , he reminded himself again – cradled in the arms of a stranger, his masked face rolled toward the man’s shoulder while his arms and legs hung free. Moving fast, Claire grabbed a large bath towel and spread it out on her couch, then nodded for the man to set Matt down, which he did as gently as possible.

His package delivered, the man backed up, nodding first at Foggy, then at Claire.

“You need anything, or anyone gives you trouble, just ask for Tony.”

Claire smiled at the man. “Thank you, Tony.”

“I’ll make sure he knows,” Foggy promised.

“He don’t need to know.” Tony shook his head, backing through the doorway. “He got enough on his plate as it is.”

Before the door was closed, Claire was back to focusing on Matt.

“Bring me that floor lamp, yeah, good. Put it right there, thanks,” she said to Foggy with a combination of nods and gestures.

She eased the mask off once more, this time pulling it completely free and exposing Matt’s sweaty, tangled hair, blood plastering it to one side of his head. Next, she pulled his blood-soaked gloves from his hands, then ghosted her fingers over the protective armor of the suit.

“Okay, how the hell do I get him out of—“

Matt opened his eyes with a sharp gasp, his body suddenly rigid, everything – even his breathing – utterly still. Foggy had never seen a look of such complete terror on his friend’s face before.

“Matt, hey, hey, it’s Claire,” her voice was soft, reassuring. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Matt didn’t respond. Didn’t even shift his attention toward her voice.

“Matty? It’s me. You’re in Claire’s apartment, okay?” Foggy leaned closer, reaching for his friend’s arm to reassure him.

The moment he touched Matt, however, the man reacted with surprising agility for someone who had been unconscious seconds before. He smacked Foggy’s hand away with his right and swung wildly with his left at the same time, narrowly missing clocking Foggy on the jaw. As Foggy backed away, surprised, Matt jackknifed himself upright, gaining his feet with startling speed and backing away from the couch, his body angled toward the wall between Claire’s windows.

“Matt, what the hell!” Foggy exclaimed.

Matt began to hyperventilate, his left arm held close to his body, his right out as though reaching for Foggy, but…not quite. Claire stood between them with her arms outstretched like a ref in a boxing match. As Foggy watched, trying to get a grip on the ninja move Matt was just able to execute, Matt groaned low in his throat, his eyelids fluttering, his body wavering. Claire started forward, but wasn’t quick enough as Matt’s knees buckled and he tumbled to her floor, landing in a heap on his left side, eyes closed once more.

For just a beat, no one moved, both Foggy and Claire staring at the red-suited body on the floor. Foggy shuddered, feeling a chill slip through him as he thought back to the night he’d found out about Matt’s nocturnal habits; the man had stumbled in and fallen just like this.

“Serious déjà vu moment,” Claire muttered, moving cautiously forward.

“You, too, huh?” Foggy croaked.

Gently rolling Matt to his back, Claire’s quick fingers found the seal on the upper portion of his suit, peeling it open and expertly working it off his shoulders and down his arms.

“You look like you’ve done this before,” Foggy commented, feeling a strange sort of bitterness worm into his chest.

“You work in an ER long enough,” Claire huffed as she tossed the blood-soaked garment aside, “you learn just about every trick there is to get someone out of their clothes.”

“Why didn’t you just cut it off him?” Foggy asked, watching as she ran her hands quickly down Matt’s legs, feeling for what, he wasn’t sure.

“Don’t think this material can be cut,” Claire replied, moving back up Matt’s torso until she paused at his left shoulder. “Looks like it’s not bullet proof, though.”

“Holy shit,” Foggy breathed as his eyes caught on the bloody hole in Matt’s skin. “That is a lot of blood.”

“Too much. Help me get him up on the couch again,” Claire instructed, grabbing Matt’s shoulders and nodding toward his knees.

Foggy obeyed, helping her lay Matt on the coach with his left shoulder accessible.

“Look,” Claire said, wiping sweat from her lip with the back of her wrist. “This is going to be a bitch. I don’t feel an exit wound, which means the bullet is still in there.”

“And we’re still saying a hospital is out of the question?”

“He needs fluid and we gotta keep him from going into shock,” Claire continued, ignoring Foggy's question. “I need to get these pants off of him – they’re shit for keeping him warm. Go to the room on the right and you’ll find a box labeled ‘Mike’. You should find some sweat pants or something we can put him in.”

Foggy moved automatically, responding to her authoritative tone. He was swiftly losing focus; he hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours and the combination of the Taser burns, adrenalin rush, and alcohol from the previous night were starting to take their toll. He dug through the box she’d indicated and found some grey sweat pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and some thick socks. Matt loved his socks.

When he returned, she had managed to remove Matt’s boots and the bottom portion of his suit, tossing both aside and leaving Matt in just his boxers. She’d moved the light closer to his shoulder, had pulled on gloves, and had cleaned the area around the wound.

As Claire inserted a catheter into a vein in Matt’s right arm, attaching the tubing to a saline bag, Foggy stood at Matt’s feet, staring at his friend’s face. Matt’s brows were pulled together, his lips an angry red slash across his too-pale face. Several days of scruff rippled as he clenched his jaw, feeling the pain even while unconscious.

“Something’s not right,” Foggy said suddenly.

“You wanna be more specific?” Claire asked, hooking the tab of the saline bag on the edge of the lamp and turning the valve so that the fluid flowed into Matt’s system.

“He didn’t know us,” Foggy continued.

Claire paused, a pair of wicked-looking, large tweezers poised over the hole in Matt’s shoulder. “He was rattled.”

“No…that’s not it. He’s like…hyper vigilant. He doesn’t get rattled like that.” Foggy moved along the back of the couch closer to Matt’s face, purposely not looking at what Claire was doing. “You remember that night I met you; he was half dead.”

“More than half,” Claire grunted as Matt flinched and cried out as she dug for the bullet.

He didn’t wake and she continued.

“He knew us then,” Foggy reminded her. “He was half out of it, but he knew us.”

Claire exhaled as she pulled the bullet from the muscle in Matt’s shoulder, dropping it into Foggy’s outstretched hand. Matt shifted slightly, a soft moan escaping as he did so. Foggy saw Claire’s eyes track his friend’s face, then pause.

“What is it?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice this before,” she replied. “His ears.”

“The blood?”

“He must have been close enough to the explosion to rupture his eardrums.”

Foggy felt himself grow cold, the weight of the bullet balanced in his palm suddenly increasing.

“Is it permanent?”

Claire shook her head. “It’s hard to say, but I doubt it. I’ve seen ear trauma like this before. After about twenty-four to forty-eight hours, the ears begin to heal.”

“Yeah, but…,” Foggy swallowed. “Matt… _sees_ with his ears. If he can’t hear, he’s—“

“Totally blind,” Claire whispered, worry and wonder blending on her face. She shook her head once. “Come on; let’s fix what we can at least.”

Foggy felt the next hour pass in a cloud. He followed Claire’s orders, watching as she stitched Matt’s shoulder, cleaned the blood from his face and chest, checked his head and cursed impressively when Foggy revealed that the head wound was from a lead pipe. As Claire instructed him, Foggy helped her check his ribs, noting the feel of the cracked bone as well as the tight muscles that ran along Matt’s narrow torso. She had him tear off strips of wide medical tape and placed them along the worst of the bruising, where he’d felt the bones shift beneath his fingers.

The strength he saw in his friend amazed him, especially considering the way Matt maneuvered through each day so cautiously, the way he’d barely touch his elbow when he’d silently ask for a guide, the way he skimmed his fingers along the wall to make out the bends and turns of a room. Seeing Matt like this – bruised and bloodied – it should seem to Foggy that his friend was broken and weak.

But instead all he saw was power.

Matt was pure, coiled power, nothing but bone, muscle, and skin out there fighting off the bad guys. Saving people from the darkness. Fighting for what he wanted: the people in his city safe from fear. Foggy felt a flush of shame swim over him as he remembered wanting to see Matt have to fight for something just once. He realized now that Matt fought every time he stepped outside – either as a blind man against the elements, or as Daredevil against the shadows.

As Claire was stitching the cut running along Matt’s hairline, Foggy noticed his friend start to shake.

“He’s shivering,” Foggy pointed out. “Like…a lot.”

“We need to elevate his feet,” Claire said. “Get him warmer. He’s going into shock.”

Foggy propped the back couch cushion under Matt’s feet and helped Claire slide the sweats he found over Matt’s bare legs. Pulling the socks onto Matt’s feet and grabbing the blanket from Claire, he carefully covered Matt’s bare chest and shoulders, frowning at the shuddering sounds of misery that slipped out between Matt’s shivering lips.

“Isn’t there anything you can give him for the pain?” Foggy asked.

Claire pulled off her gloves, then rubbed her face tiredly. “Last time I did that he told me it made him,” she waved her hand in front of her face, “disconnected. Like he couldn’t focus or something. If he’s already down another sense, I’m afraid what morphine will do to him. And he has to be awake for anything else.”

Foggy dragged a hand down his face.

“I gave him a shot of lidocaine at his shoulder,” Claire told him. “Best thing we can do now is keep him warm and…wait.”

Foggy was so tired he was swaying on his feet. Wordlessly, Claire got up and grabbed another blanket, staring to push him toward her bedroom. Foggy planted his feet.

“Wait, no, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m too tired to deal with two unconscious men in my living room,” Claire told him.

“I’m staying with Matt,” Foggy insisted. “He’s there because of me; I’m not sleeping until I know he’s okay.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “You plan on staying awake for the rest of your life?”

“Fine,” Foggy conceded. “Until I know he’s okay _this time_.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “At least let me treat those Taser burns.”

“How did you—“

“Matt’s not the only one who pays close attention.”

Sighing, Foggy nodded and allowed her to help him down to the floor, his back against the couch. She didn’t have any pants that fit him in that mysterious ‘Mike’ box, but there were a couple of T-shirts that she was able to provide so that Foggy could lose the rumpled, blood-stained dress shirt he’d been wearing for two days, now sporting two distinctive charred areas where the Taser rod had caught him.

She coated the small Taser burns with some soothing cream and put a gauze patch over them, then forced him to drink a bottle of Gatorade as she watched. Once satisfied that he wasn’t going to expire on her, they sat shoulder to shoulder, Claire near Matt’s head, her hand resting carefully on his chest like a human heart monitor.

At first Foggy wasn’t sure what to say to her; their only interactions had been over Matt’s bloody body, trying to keep him alive. The fact that she’d known about Matt’s secret before him still set his teeth on edge. Then she asked him how he’d ended up at the church, and it hit him that there was so much Claire didn’t know. About Matt, about their friendship. She was more in the dark than he’d ever be, and yet she stayed. She was there, present, watching and waiting for Matt.

He owed her something for that. A modicum of information in appreciate for keeping his best friend alive. So, Foggy told her about the case – or, rather, the _pseudo_ -case – that had brought them to the church. We he reached the part about the men who’d killed Matt’s dad, Claire shared that she’d looked up Jack Murdock after a comment Matt had made about his ability to take a beating having been inherited.

“He ever say anything about his mom?” Claire asked.

Foggy shook his head, then groaned, dropping his head back as he remembered where he was _supposed_ to have been that night.

“ _My_ mom’s gonna kill me,” Foggy said.

“I’m sure she’ll understand once she hears the reason.”

“You don’t know Ma Nelson,” Foggy muttered, eyes closed. “She owns a meat grinder and she’s not afraid to use it.”

Matt’s low gasp had them both sitting forward and twisting around. The warm, sleepy feeling that had stolen over Foggy as he sat talking with Claire evaporated the moment he saw Matt’s wide eyes, heard his friend’s ragged, rapid breath begin to hammer from his lungs. Hesitantly, Claire reached for Matt’s left hand, free of the blanket that was wrapped around him.

“Careful,” Foggy cautioned, remembering all-too-well how dangerous Matt’s fists could be when he was caught unaware.

“It’s okay,” Claire breathed. “I just need him to know that it’s me.”

She reached up and rested her fingers on the back of Matt’s hand. Foggy saw him flinch violently, then grimace in obvious pain. He was tense, as though prepared to bolt, despite being stretched out on the couch, his feet elevated on the cushions.

“It’s okay,” Claire repeated, softly, like a mantra, though Foggy wasn’t sure which of the three of them she was trying to reassure in that moment.

She carefully took Matt’s fingers and guided them to her face. First her cheek, which drew Matt’s focus, then she turned her head slightly so that her lips were beneath his fingers. Matt arched his neck, his back bowing slightly, looking as though he wanted to pull away, but forced himself to hold still.

“You’re safe, Matt,” she told him. “It’s Claire. You’re okay.”

“Claire?”

Foggy felt a sob catch in his throat at the sound of Matt’s voice. It was rough and raw as though he’d been screaming for hours; a sound so lost and alone it broke Foggy’s heart.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Claire nodded, and Foggy heard tears in her voice. She kept Matt’s hand at her mouth. “We found you and brought you to my place. You’re safe.”

“Foggy?”

“I’m here,” Foggy replied without thinking.

“He’s okay,” Claire said against Matt’s fingers, nodding again, clearly uncertain if he was getting her words or just her meaning. “He’s safe. You got him out, Matt.”

That news seemed to be Matt’s undoing. He sagged into the couch, a dry sob shaking his body, and Foggy couldn’t keep himself away any longer. He moved closer to Claire, resting his hand on one of Matt’s knees. Matt flinched, looking unseeingly in the direction of Foggy’s touch.

“It’s okay, it’s Foggy,” Claire said against Matt’s fingers.

Matt sniffed and hesitantly moved his hand from Claire’s face. Moving as slowly as Claire had, Foggy took his friend’s hand and put it against his own cheek, waiting until Matt relaxed, practically petting him in recognition.

“Claire,” Matt said, turning his face vaguely in Claire’s direction. “I can’t…I can’t see.”

It was such an odd thing for a blind man to say, Foggy huffed out a choked laugh. Claire’s entire focus was on Matt, however, and she simply took his hand to her lips once more.

“It was the explosion,” she said, enunciating her words so that his sensitive skin could pick up what he needed to. “Your hearing will return.”

“I feel…,” Matt swallowed, blinking his eyes rapidly, his breath hitching painfully. “I f-feel everything.”

Foggy winced, thinking of how Matt had said that to him just yesterday, when he hadn’t been bleeding from multiple locations.

“I know,” Claire said softly, her voice choked with emotion.

Matt shifted again, his face knotting in pain before he relaxed back against the couch.

“Try not to move,” Claire told him. Matt pulled his hand away from her mouth and started to push himself upright on the couch. “Dammit,” Claire pushed to her feet to get a better angle on stopping him.

“They w-won’t – ahh…f-fuck!” Matt’s face knotted in a grimace of pain and his muscles went rigid again. He held his left arm close to his wounded ribs and pressed his head back against the arm of the couch.

“What part of _try not to move_ don’t you understand,” Claire snapped at him, exasperation lacing her tone.

“He can’t hear you,” Foggy reminded her.

“He told me once there are other ways to see,” Claire said. “I’m willing to bet he knows exactly how pissed off I am at him right now.”

“Claire?” Matt was panting from his exertions. He’d kicked the cushion away from the foot of the couch and was trying to pull himself to a sitting position without using his left arm or shifting his torso too much. It hurt Foggy to watch him. “Foggy?”

Foggy started forward, but Claire thrust out an arm, stopping him.

“What--?”

“Do _not_ help him kill himself,” Claire practically growled. “The man needs to learn his limitations.”

Matt dropped his chin to his chest and gripped the back of the couch with his right hand. As they watched, he managed to pull himself upright with a low growl of effort, panting like a runner finishing a marathon once there and slumping sideways to the couch.

“I know…I know you’re there,” Matt said, slowly cradling his wounded arm, the blanket having fallen to pool around his waist. Foggy grimaced at the sight of the scars on Matt’s chest – most of them faded and white, but one or two, particularly the one on his belly where a ninja had tried to gut him, were still knotted and pink. “I can sm-smell your perfume.”

“Great. Now he knows I wear perfume,” Foggy dead-panned.

“F-foggy’s aftersh-shave,” Matt continued, the side of his face pressed into the couch.

“I can’t let him…Claire, c’mon,” Foggy pleaded.

Claire sighed, and took a step forward, as Matt continued.

“Th-they won’t stop,” he panted.

Claire crouched in front of him and took his hand. Matt started in surprise, but Foggy saw him settle the moment he realized it was Claire’s hand. He fumbled a bit but managed to rest his other palm on her face, his thumb ghosting over her lips. Foggy didn’t miss the way her shoulders rippled as she shivered at this touch.

“They told me,” Matt’s rough voice was fading as he let his head drop back against the couch, his hand still on Claire’s face. “They won’t stop until everyone I love…is as dead as…as me.”

Foggy felt his breath still.

“The explosion killed everyone in that church, Matt,” Claire said against his fingers. “It’s had to.”

“Megan,” Matt said, letting his hand fall away from Claire’s face. “Megan wasn’t…wasn’t there.”

Foggy watched as Matt’s eyes slipped closed, then popped open wide as he tried to keep himself conscious.

“Who else?” Claire said from the ground, looking up at Foggy.

“Karen,” Foggy said, reaching for his phone. The front display revealed that it was four in the morning, but at this point, he didn’t care. “Karen is the only one I can think of.”

Eyes on Matt’s slumped form, Foggy felt his heart rate speed up as Karen’s phone rang. If Matt could hear his heart, he’d no doubt be making the wounded man more anxious.

_“’llo?”_

Foggy exhaled. She sounded sleepy, not scared. Hurt. Dead. “Karen?”

_“Foggy? Oh my God, are you okay? Where are you? Is Matt with you?”_

Foggy smiled, meeting Claire’s eyes as she tossed a look at him over her shoulder.

“I’m fine, listen, where are you?”

_“My place, why?”_

“You got somewhere you can stay? Preferably… _outside_ of Hell’s Kitchen?”

 _“What? Why?”_ He heard her shift, imagined her sitting up, a frown marring her pretty face. “ _Foggy, what the hell is going on? First Matt has me do this whole google Earth search and practically ancestry dot com Rosco Sweeney, then you guys vanish for a day and—“_

“Remember the newspaper article? The one where Sweeney was standing with Matt’s dad?”

 _“Yeah.”_ She stretched the word out like caramel and Foggy knew she was making the connection.

“This is about Matt’s dad. Someone…they grabbed me to get to Matt.”

_“Jesus, Foggy….”_

“I’m okay.”

_“Where’s Matt now?”_

“He’s…here, with me, but….”

_“Is he okay?”_

“He…,” Foggy watched as Claire began to gently stroke Matt’s upper left arm with one hand, readying a syringe with the other, “will be.”

_“Where are you? I’m coming to you.”_

“No. No, Karen, look, we need to know you’re safe. That these guys can’t find you. Can you do that for us, _please_?” He slipped an extra note of pleading into that last word.

Karen didn’t say anything for a moment and Foggy continued watching Claire’s ministrations. Whatever she’d injected into Matt caused him to flinch at the pinch of the needle, but he didn’t so much as raise his head to protest. He looked close to passing out again and Claire took notice, readying some ibuprofen and water for him.

 _“Yeah, okay,”_ Karen was saying in reluctant acceptance. _“I’ve one place I could go. But you owe me a long-winded explanation.”_

“Thanks, Karen, really,” Foggy let his relief show in his tone. “Just, text me when you’re safe. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s okay to come home.”

 _“Take care of…,”_ Karen’s voice trailed off and with a breath she finished, _“each other, okay?”_

“We will,” Foggy promised and hung up, taking the glass of water from Claire’s outstretched hand and watching as she eased Matt back against the couch, his friend’s eyes closed once more. “What was that shot?”

“Broad-spectrum antibiotics,” she told him, checking the bandage at Matt’s shoulder to make sure he didn’t tear his stitches. “Bullets aren’t the cleanest things, you know.”

“You just…have that? Antibiotics?”

Claire gave him a slight shrug, running her fingers gently through Matt’s tangled hair. “On the down low, yeah. I started stocking up when I met our friend here. Anyone finds out, I could lose my license, but…I’d rather risk that then have him keel over from infection.”

Foggy sank down to the arm of the couch. He’d never felt so tired. “You think he has an infection?”

Claire shook her head. “Not sure, but he’s warmer than I’d like. Especially with his blood pressure being so low.”

Foggy felt his chin tremble as the backs of his eyes burned. “I didn’t know it was…,” he choked off, trying to find the words while simultaneously fighting to keep his tears at bay. “I’ve never worried about someone so much, you know?”

Claire looked at him with sad, sympathetic eyes. “I know, Foggy.”

“Is that why you guys aren’t together?” Foggy asked.

Claire looked down, then back at Matt’s now-peaceful face. “Yeah, something like that.”

Foggy rubbed his face. “Can I take you up on that bed?”

“Yeah,” Claire nodded, smiling softly up at him. “I’m off the next two days. Not how I planned to spend one of my rare weekends, but hey, you roll with it, right?”

Foggy felt the corner of his mouth pull up in a tired, reluctant smile. “Thanks, Claire.”

“I’ll get you when he wakes up.”

Foggy started back toward her bedroom, the blanket she’d wrapped around him before draped over his forearm. Just at the doorway, he stopped and turned, seeing Claire carefully shift Matt forward and slip in behind him on the couch, his head and shoulders now against her chest.

“Did you hear what those people said? The ones that helped us carry him here?” Foggy asked quietly.

“I heard.”

“This is… _he_ is actually making a difference.”

“He doesn’t always think so,” Claire said, her fingers tracing the edge of Matt’s hair.

“Maybe someone should tell him, then,” Foggy yawned.

He didn’t clearly remember anything after that except for a soft, sweet-smelling bed and darkness too complete for dreams.


	5. The Devil

Consciousness returned to Matt in levels of pain rather than awareness.

In the months following his accident, Matt would still expect there to be light when he’d open his eyes in the morning. Something to indicate a shift from night to day and that it was time to rise. It took a while for him to get used to the endless sameness of it all, to the way his perception worked, the sounds around him bouncing off of objects and giving him a sense of where things were.

But it never really felt like waking up. There was just nothing…and then _everything_.

For so long, he’d felt trapped in an endless nightmare where the world screamed at him from all sides and he felt everything and his dad was gone. There was no place he could find that gave him reprieve, no escape from the loneliness, the chaos. He couldn’t press his hands to his ears tight enough to block out the world – and when he tried, he’d hear his own blood rush through his veins, his skin cells dividing and sloughing off, the fine bones in his hand creaking from the pressure.

His dad’s voice had helped for a while, and after that the meditation and focusing tricks that Stick had taught him. But the nightmares – faceless, shapeless voids of terror – waited for him. Soon, the only way to deal with them had been with his fists on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen

The pain brought Matt around like a swift punch, registering varying degrees of severity. There was the post-fight, bone-deep ache that he knew planned on sticking around a while. Then the sharp, breath-stealing agony centralized on his left shoulder, and finally a throb wrapping around his head that shot through him hard enough he felt his body shudder in response.

The complete blackness that surrounded him trapped him with that pain, no chance for distraction or relief, and for a moment he wished desperately for the noise. The noise he was used to; he’d learned ways of focusing it, channeling it.

In comparison, the silence was terrifying.

He didn’t immediately register his own panicked breathing – not even when it painfully stretched his cracked ribs – until he felt the pressure of a hand over his heart like a shield. It took him several moments of head-aching concentration, but he was able to slow his breaths until they trembled outward in a moderately regular manner.

With that, he was able to take stock, vaguely remembering waking once before and feeling Claire’s face, her breath, her lips against his sensitive fingers forming words of reassurance. He was safe. Foggy was safe. He’d done his job.

He could smell Claire now, her shampoo, the warmth of her skin, the drier sheets she used in her laundry. He could feel the pressure of her body at his back, her curves fitting against his angles and cradling him so that his bruises and aches were padded and he wasn’t shivering anymore. He felt the ghost of her breath against the side of his face and wondered if she were speaking to him.

Reaching up with a strangely clumsy hand – he wasn’t accustomed to not knowing where his body was in relation to the world – he found her hair, then her face, and turned his face toward hers to find her lips with his fingertips. She was saying something to him. He once more strained to make it out by the motion of her mouth, the vibration of her voice.

“I’m here. I have you.”

Matt felt his chest hitch at that, remembering when he’d offered her those same reassurances. He felt her free arm flex gently around him, holding him close and warmth flooded his body. With her hand positioned as it was, he knew she could feel his heartbeat quicken, feel the way his muscles quivered involuntarily at her touch. He felt – for one strange moment – safe.

“Claire.”

He didn’t know how he sounded, how loud he was, if his fear and pain and anxiety transmitted through his voice, but she turned her face and pressed her lips against his fingertips. Then, in a move that surprised him, pressed those lips to his cheekbone, the corner of his eye, his temple. He caught his breath at that intimate touch, wanting to turn to her, but feeling his body immediately protest.

His shoulder felt heavy and hot; flexing his fingers was too much movement at this point. The ache in his head shimmied down through his jaw and he felt a helpless groan in reaction to that pain sit at the back of his throat. Something slid across his chest and he felt the sandpaper-like rasp of cotton, knowing she was wrapping the blanket tighter around him in an effort to keep him warm. His heart trembled slightly, his lungs catching on his damaged ribcage as he drew in a breath.

He felt himself straining, his neck arching slightly, as he tried to hear something, _anything_ that gave him and idea of his situation, but it was dark and silent. He didn’t know if anyone else had been hurt because of the Sweeney’s twisted idea of vengeance. All he knew was that he was alive, Foggy was alive, and Claire was holding him.

He remembered waking to the darkness and the chaos and feeling his father’s arms around him, shielding him from the terror, from the uncertainty. He felt a stab of loss so deep it felt like something was tearing loose inside of him. His father had done everything in his power to take care of him and it had killed him. _They_ had killed him. And now they wanted retribution? Matt knew that if anyone was due vengeance, it was him. It was his father.

Battlin’ Jack Murdock. Who always got up. Always kept fighting. Who had the devil in him and had passed it on to his son.

He felt Claire’s mouth at his temple again and her hand at his head, pressing gently against the wound she must have stitched up. Dimly, he became aware of a vibration in his throat and chest and realized it was the agony he felt being vocalized. He tried to stifle it, to trap it inside of himself once more, but the pressure was too great and he gasped from the pain of it, feeling his lips fold slightly, the sting of tears tracing his bruised face.

Then Claire’s hand was gently stroking the soft skin beneath his blinking, unseeing eyes, her gentle fingers drying his tears.

“God, Claire, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

He knew he whispered it because it was breath only. If she’d been any further from him, she wouldn’t have heard him at all. He didn’t know where Foggy was, but at this point, he didn’t care. Everything that had happened to Foggy had been his fault. He hadn’t figured it out fast enough, hadn’t stopped it, and his friend had been hurt because of it. Not only that, they were at Claire’s apartment which meant she was once more in danger.

“I have to…to try harder,” he told her. “Have to keep…you safe.”

He felt Claire shift beneath him slightly, as though her breath stuttered, and her lips were at his face again. He reached up with one hand and pressed his palm to her cheek, feeling her hand on the other side of his. They sat like that for several minutes until Matt felt the weight of his body pull at him. He was so tired.

“Sleep,” he felt Claire say against his fingers.

Letting her guide his hand to his chest, he felt the blankets pulled up again, partnering with her body heat to chase away the chills that seemed to worm their way into his body. If he could just rid himself of that bone-deep ache, he might be able to meditate and heal, but it was as though there was something lying in wait inside of him. Like his devil clawing to get out, ominous and dark, ready to take him down.

Matt didn’t remember falling asleep, but he did register waking this time. For one, the pain had increased. More importantly, he could hear voices. Hushed, and urgent, as though calling to him from a long tunnel. He tried to get their attention but all he was able to manage was a low groan. The voices came closer; he heard Foggy say his name, his tone tense and thin as though he was afraid.

He realized then he could smell both Claire’s soft, floral scent and Foggy’s stronger musk that one associates with the person they’ve shared small living quarters with for several years.

There was a pinch on his arm that he immediately connected to a needle. He swallowed hard, trying to sort through the sensations bombarding him. He could feel something cool across his forehead, then Claire’s hand on his arm. She wasn’t behind him anymore, but she was near.

Blinking his eyes open, he saw chaos; his echo-location, hampered by his wounded ears, slowly returning. It was as though he were viewing the world through burning water. He couldn’t tell where anything or anyone was, but he could _hear them_.

“Foggy?”

“I’m here, buddy.” Foggy’s hand was on his arm immediately, as though he’d just been waiting for permission.

“Matt,” that was Claire, he knew, “can you hear me?”

“A…a little, yeah,” Matt nodded. “You’re really far away.”

Claire touched the top of his head. “I’m right here,” she reassured him. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” he replied honestly.

He bit his lower lip to keep the accompanying groan at bay. This was a different pain. A deeper pain. He wanted to curl in on himself, but it hurt to move anything.

“Matt, hey,” Claire was drawing his attention again. “Listen, I need you to take some medicine for me, can you do that?”

Matt nodded and tried to push himself up, but found his body was not in agreement. He felt someone’s hand at the back of his neck, tipping his head up so that he could swallow the pills placed in his mouth, then he was eased back.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked, confused. Their voices were tinny and strained, as though they were in danger. He couldn’t tell if anyone else was there, though. “What happened?”

“Easy,” Claire said to him, keeping her hand close. “You’ve got a bit of a fever, but I gave you a shot. You lost a lot of blood, Matt, so your body just needs to rest, okay?”

“What about…,” he paused, searching his memory, his mind a mess of disjointed images and desperate searches for sound, “Megan Sweeney?”

“No word from her,” Foggy told him, his presence at the side of the couch heavy and worried. “Karen’s fine, though. That about covers anyone close to you that she could hurt.”

Matt nodded gingerly. He was tired, but he wanted more information. He wanted to know if the cops had shown up at the church, if Silke and Sweeney had been identified, but whatever Claire gave him seemed to pull him low in moments and he never got to voice his questions.

The sound of a car horn – five floors down and outside – shook him awake. He lay on Claire’s couch, startled into complete consciousness, feeling everything, hearing _everything_. He carefully moved his hands up to his ears, his left arm stiff and sore, and covered them, then lifted his hands, noting the decided difference in sound, and relishing for just a moment in the chaotic perception that allowed him to see…in a manner of speaking.

He stayed still, listening for his friends. Foggy was asleep on the floor next to the couch. He’d showered, finally, his hair was still a bit wet, and he was wearing someone else’s clothes. Matt could sense the burns on his friend’s torso, but also a sweet-smelling salve that Claire must have applied.

Claire herself was down the hall in her room, the door open in case she was needed, her heartbeat slow and calm, her rest peaceful. Carefully, mindful of the fact that both people in the apartment were listening for him even while sleeping, Matt pulled himself up to a sitting position, pausing long enough to catch his breath, before rotating sideways and resting his sock-covered feet on the floor. Feeling the socks made him smile; he was sure that had been Foggy’s consideration.

Easing himself to his feet, Matt swayed slightly as his blood pressure adjusted, and then made his way around Claire’s furniture to the bathroom. He took care of his immediate needs and washed his hands, sensing as he reached for the door that his movement had woken Claire. She was standing outside the bathroom door smelling of soap and powder and a trace amount of tears.

The scent of the salt on her skin brought back the night before – day before? he’d lost all sense of time – and he felt his face heat up from the memory.

“Hey,” she greeted him.

“Hey.”

“Can you hear me, Matt?”

He nodded, recognizing that she was speaking very low in order to not wake Foggy. “You’re not far away anymore.”

He heard her smile, sensing the shift in her face as the perception of flames danced around the space she took up in the room.

“You look better,” she said as he leaned his right shoulder against the door frame.

“I feel…,” he paused, searching for the right word, “less.”

He sensed her nod and twist away as though to look over at the couch. “I suppose that’s something.” He heard her exhale softly. “I should check on your wound. Let me just make sure—“

“Foggy’s still asleep,” Matt reassured her.

Claire paused, then reached out to hesitantly take his right hand. “Come here, then.”

He let her lead him into her bedroom; he knew where it was and could have navigated the space rather easily, but this was her _bedroom_ , a private sanctuary, one he felt he needed to be invited into or avoid all together.

“Sit on the bed, there,” she instructed.

He obeyed and listened as she moved around her room collecting whatever it was she needed. As he waited, he stretched his focus wider, listening to the voices, heartbeats, breaths of Hell’s Kitchen. The traffic, the music, the sounds of joy and pain…it had all waited for him. It hadn’t gone anywhere.

“I’m going to check your ears first, okay?” Claire said, pulling his focus close once more. “Tell me if this hurts.”

It wasn’t comfortable, but Matt stayed silent as she looked at his wounded eardrums, then at the stitches on his head and finally his wounded shoulder and bruised side. He couldn’t help the low hiss of pain as she probed at the wound on his shoulder, muttering that he was going to have to be careful swinging that arm around and could probably use some physical therapy as it was healing.

“I have physical therapy,” he argued.

“I’m not talking about punching bad guys in the head.”

“It’s very therapeutic.”

Claire was quiet and Matt leaned into her touch a bit, relishing the fact that he could hear her heartbeat pick up its pace.

“How long?” Matt asked.

“Two nights,” Claire told him. “Crazy way to get yourself to stay over at my place.”

“I had a whole thing planned, but this’ll work.”

Claire was quiet once more and Matt heard unspoken paragraphs in her silence.

“Thank you, Claire.”

“That’s code for, _I can stand up without falling over so I don’t need you anymore_ isn’t it?”

Matt reached up and stroked her cheek with his right hand, his lips pulling into a brief, sad smile as she turned her face to press her lips against his palm.

“I’m always going to need you.”

They sat like that for another moment before Claire straightened up. “Once we got that fever down and you really slept, you seemed to improve quickly. I’m guessing that’s due to all that…meditating?”

“Possibly.”

“Your ears still have some blood on the tissue, but they’re healing,” Claire told him. “And I’m a little worried about that crack you took to the head. You’ll need to make sure you avoid another hit there for a while.”

Matt nodded.

“Suit’s working good, though,” Claire said, moving away from him. “From what Foggy told me, your ribcage should have been shattered. You got away with a couple cracked ribs.”

“Got to work on the bullet proofing, though.”

“Kevlar would be nice,” Claire conceded, “but you still have to be able to move.”

“You see my dilemma.”

Matt paused as he heard Foggy roll over in his sleep. When his friend didn’t wake, he tilted his head toward Claire. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

“So you said,” Claire replied. “Matt….”

When she didn’t continue, he turned toward her, trying to focus on where he perceived her face to be, but knowing he missed the mark by the way she reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“You need to know that…it matters, what you’re doing.”

Matt tilted his head in question, waiting her out.

“It’s making a difference,” Claire continued. “You said there’s so much pain in the world, but…people are seeing you push it back.”

Matt looked down, wishing for a moment that he had his glasses to hide behind. He didn’t know how to reply to her words. This time hadn’t even been about stopping a bad guy like Fisk. It had been about saving Foggy. He said as much in a mumbled reply.

“Saving Foggy from two old mobsters who just so happened to be responsible for your father’s death,” Claire pressed. “That’s making a difference, Matt.”

Not wanting to push this conversation beyond the boundaries of his emotional limitations, Matt simply nodded, offering her a tight smile. Claire got the hint and stood from the bed.

“I have a shirt you can wear.”

“Mike’s shirt?”

Claire stopped moving around the room. “How did you know?”

“His clothes smell like…sandalwood and patchouli.”

Claire chuckled, a pleasant, low, throaty sound that stirred Matt’s belly.

“Yeah, that’s Mike all right.”

With Mike’s long-sleeved Henley covering his bruises and his left arm held close to his body, Matt made his way back to the living room and sank down on the couch, waiting as Claire showered and Foggy slept. When Foggy woke, Matt heard the grin stretch the muscles along his friend’s face.

“Wow, look who’s up! And dressed! You’re looking good, buddy.”

“Feel good.”

“Really?”

Matt tilted his head. “Feel better.”

“You were pretty out of it yesterday,” Foggy told him, drawing his knees up and folding his fingers together to hold his legs close. “Losing your hearing really messed you up.”

“Yeah.” Matt’s brows folded as he remembered.

“You calmed down when Claire held onto you, though,” Foggy told him, and Matt noticed that the note of resentment that he’d detected in his friend’s tone when talking about Claire was absent. “Which was a relief, because I did _not_ like seeing you…like that.”

“Like what?”

“Just…in pain like that.”

Matt looked down, pressing his lips together. “I’m sorry, Foggy.”

“What?” Foggy pushed to his feet, the blanket he’d been wrapped up in pooling on the ground. “No, Matt, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. You saved my life.”

“Which wouldn’t have needed saving if it wasn’t for me.”

Foggy sat at the other end of the couch, pulling a leg up sideways and leaning forward.

“Matt, you’re a smart guy, and I’ll give you a pass because, well, you’ve been through a lot,” Foggy began. “But you’re an idiot if you think any of this lands on you.”

“Foggy, I—“

“No, you’re gonna listen up,” Foggy interrupted. “When I found out what you do, I was…hurt. And pissed. And confused. But once I…accepted that you had your reasons and that they were pretty damn good reasons,” he shifted his weight on the couch, pulling Matt’s focus closer to him, “I realized that you were right. This city does need you in that mask.”

Matt kept his face away from Foggy, hoping the other man couldn’t read any expression that might have escaped.

“The other night,” Foggy said softly, “I realized… _I_ needed you in that mask.”

“I thought you only needed your friend,” Matt replied.

“I need that, too,” Foggy replied. “I’m very needy.”

Matt smiled. “So I’ve noticed.”

“I also need some food and a T-shirt that wasn’t made for a twelve-year-old.”

Matt chuckled, but then brought his head up as he sensed Claire approaching, fresh from her shower.

“It’s noon on my second day off in about six weeks,” she said, rounding the corner of the couch. “If you think you can get home without running into too much trouble, I’d love to do something exciting and exotic like go to the grocery store.”

Matt nodded, pushing carefully to his feet. “I just need my boots,” he said. “Um…and my…suit?”

“I was soaking it,” Claire told him, handing him a plastic bag, which Foggy took from her before Matt could reach for it. “There was a lot of blood from that shoulder wound.”

Once they were both ready to leave, Foggy promising him food if he took a cab without question rather than the subway as Matt had suggested, they were standing at the door, Foggy lingering in the hall holding the bag of meds Claire had given him, waiting for Matt to say goodbye.

“Thank you,” Matt said solemnly, making sure Claire heard him. “I mean that, Claire.”

“I know you do,” she replied, touching his face gently. “Just…be careful out there. Or seeing you with your shirt off isn’t going to be half as exciting for me.”

Matt smiled. “Fair enough.”

The ride to Matt’s apartment was quiet, mostly because the sounds of the city were slightly overwhelming to Matt’s healing ears and he spent most of the cab ride curled in on himself, trying desperately not to cover his ears. When they arrived, Matt didn’t protest Foggy’s assistance up to his door and into the cool, quiet space.

“You want me to hang around?” Foggy asked, setting the take out they’d picked up on Matt’s kitchen counter. “Kinda don’t feel great about leaving you so soon.”

“I’ll be okay, Foggy,” Matt assured him. “I do have a question, though.”

“I may have an answer, unless it has anything to do with Claire or women in general, in which case I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

Matt sat down gingerly on his couch, feeling his body sigh with relief at not having to bear the burden of its own weight. “What did Megan say to you before she left that church?”

“Not much besides letting me know I was bait,” Foggy told him. “I did hear her talking with those old guys, though.”

“They say anything to indicate where she might’ve gone?”

“No, and Matt? Seriously? If you are thinking of going after her right now I swear to God I’ll sleep outside your door.”

“I have two doors,” Matt pointed out.

“C’mon, man.”

Matt chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere today, Foggy. I’m not suicidal.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Foggy groused. “Listen, I’m going to eat my weight in cheeseburgers and fries, take a shower, call my mom, and let Karen know it’s okay to come home.”

“Foggy?” Matt called as he sensed his friend heading out. “Wait on that last, okay? Just…just one more day.”

“You think Megan will come after Karen?”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But she was plenty pissed about the money my dad lost them and now that her dad and Silke are dead….”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And watch your back,” Matt cautioned. “Don’t go to the office alone.”

“I’ll be okay, Matt.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” Foggy said with partial sincerity, partial exasperation. “Get some rest, okay?”

Matt nodded and moved to the counter to get his food as soon as Foggy left. He turned on the radio, gathering the latest news on the explosion of the church, learning that at least six people had died, including James Santino and Rosco Sweeney. He played his messages, several from Karen that shifted from worried to scared to reassuring.

After a hot shower that was like delicious, slow torture between the feel of the water on his sore muscles and his wounded shoulder, Matt gave up and dropped into his bed, battling dreams until his exhausted, wounded body won the war with his over-stimulated mind. When he next woke, he could tell by the sounds outside his apartment that it was early morning, late enough to be past dawn, too early for the surplus of traffic that would soon choke the streets. He’d slept through the night. Again.

He reached over with a groan and hit the audio button on his clock: six-twelve a.m.

He needed to get back to the office, to figure out where Megan Sweeney was and find a way to contact Brett Mahoney at the precinct and get her off the streets before her vengeful plans hurt anyone else. He’d made Foggy promise not to go to the office alone, however, so he knew he couldn’t attempt the same thing. Sitting up slowly, a hand pressing against his bruised ribs, Matt fumbled for his phone, calling Foggy by voice command.

_“This had better be good.”_

“You feel like picking me up before we head to the office?”

There was a definite pause. _“Are you…are you actually_ asking _for help?”_

“I am, yes.”

_“What day is it? I need to document this. Get it notarized.”_

“Shut up and get over here.”

_“Be there in twenty.”_

True to his word, by the time Matt had taken the meds Claire had given him and was showered, moderately shaved, and dressed, Foggy was at his door with a cup of coffee. Matt breathed in the heady aroma and took it gratefully.

“Karen’s not back yet, so,” Foggy said by way of shrugging off the caffeinated gift.

“So we won’t offend her by drinking good coffee in the office?” Matt teased.

“Sarcasm looks good on you, buddy,” Foggy grinned, clapping him on the left shoulder, then drawing his hand back in dismay when Matt gasped in pain. “Sorry! God, sorry. I wasn’t…I mean, you barely look like you’ve…that was stupid, I’m sorry.”

“Fog—Foggy! It’s okay,” Matt reassured him. “I’m okay.”

“Still, I saw the amount of blood that poured out of you, man. I should be more careful.”

Matt paused on the stairs just short of the external door. “Want to make it up to me?”

He heard Foggy’s breath catch. “Of course.”

“Stop over at church with me first.”

“You want me to go to church?”

Matt smiled at the tone of disbelief cradled in his friend’s voice. “No, I just…I want to go and talk to Father Lantom and I thought…I thought you might want to meet him. That’s all.”

“Oh, okay,” Foggy replied, relief coloring his tone into a smile. “In that case, I’m all over it. Just wasn’t quite ready for confession.”

“You’re not Catholic,” Matt pointed out.

“That might not matter,” Foggy said, opening the exterior door. “Maybe they make you confess when you walk through the door, how am I supposed to know?”

“I promise you’ll be perfectly safe from confession,” Matt assured him, taking his friend’s elbow with his right hand, his cane collapsed and held lightly in his left. He couldn’t move that arm without feeling it in his teeth, but he could at least grip something with his hand again.

He directed Foggy toward the church testing his healing ears and focusing abilities while safely guided by his friend. There were still several inconsistencies, but overall, he knew where he was and what, generally, was around him. It wasn’t as good as before the explosion, but he was encouraged it would return to that honed skill.

When they reached the church, Matt was tempted to sit at the bench where Father Lantom had always found him, but because Foggy was with him, he decided to go inside.

“You can wait out here if you want,” Matt offered.

“I’ve come this far,” Foggy said, as though bracing himself to advance on a beach head. “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

Matt smiled, then gestured to the door which Foggy opened for them. The moment he stepped inside, however, Matt grew cold. It was quiet, empty, but he could hear two other heartbeats aside from Foggy’s.

One was rapid, scared, the other was quick and light. A woman’s. He strained to hear anything else – words spoken in secret behind the confessional doors, anyone moving about the lower levels of the church where he and Lantom had met once for coffee.

“Foggy,” he said, recognizing the recoil his friend had at the tone of his voice. “You need to stay right here.”

“What is it?”

“Something is wrong,” Matt told him, unfurling his cane more as a weapon than a guide. He knew this church intimately, knew where to move, what was in his way, where he’d be safe. “Get Brett on the line.”

“You want me to call the cops?” Foggy whispered harshly. “To a _church_?”

Matt turned to face him, unaware of how his dark glasses threw Foggy’s reflection back at him. “ _Yes_. Something is wrong.”

“You don’t have your suit,” Foggy hissed, grabbing at Matt’s arm.

“The suit is just for protection,” Matt protested.

“That’s my point,” Foggy snapped, teeth clenched.

“Foggy, _please_.”

“Just tell me what it is.”

“I can hear heartbeats. A woman, and someone else who is really scared.”

“Megan?”

“I don’t know,” Matt turned away. “Maybe.”

Foggy huffed. “What is the deal with this chick and churches?” he groused, but Matt heard him dialing the precinct.

He moved away from Foggy, leaving his friend in the alcove with his phone pressed to his ear, and made his way toward the front of the sanctuary. The heartbeats were behind the pulpit, near the confessionals. Matt moved cautiously forward, focusing intently on the heartbeats, listening for voices. He pulled his cane from the floor, collapsing it in until he held the entirety of it in his right hand, and moved forward as silently as his dress shoes would allow. He suddenly really appreciated the noise-cancelling material of his Daredevil suit.

As he grew closer, he could hear the rough breathing of one party. He pressed his back to a pillar just left of the pulpit and took a slow breath, steadying his own heartbeat. They were behind the pulpit, out of sight of the main sanctuary.

Turning the corner abruptly had the desired effect: he caught one of them off-guard.

“Megan Sweeney, I presume?” he asked.

“I knew it wouldn’t take you long to find me,” Megan replied. “You’re a lawyer after all; I hear you guys are pretty smart.”

“Actually,” Matt tipped his head to the side. “I was just coming by for coffee and confession.”

Megan snorted. “You telling me you didn’t get the message?”

“No message,” Matt shook his head. “How about you let my priest go and we talk.”

“Not a chance, Murdock,” Megan growled. “I made a promise and I intend to fulfill it.”

“What promise?” Matt asked, hearing Foggy hang up and willing him to stay where he was.

Father Lantom’s pulse sped up as Megan adjusted her hold on the gun Matt could now sense was pressed beneath the man’s chin. He gripped the top of his cane tighter, trying to figure out the best way to get the man out of this mess without exposing himself as more than just a blind man.

“Your father broke his word, broke my Pop’s _trust_ ,” Megan declared. “He benefited from that—“

Matt couldn’t help it. Her words stirred the devil inside him until talons were sprouting from his heart. “You’re not serious. Your father _had him_ _killed_.”

“Meaning that _you_ benefited from that,” Megan snarled. “I’ve looked into you. I know you don’t have our money.”

“It was gone a long time ago,” Matt told her. “When your people turned me into an orphan.”

“But you _do_ have people you care about,” Megan said, causing Lantom to inhale sharply with a jab of the gun barrel. “People your old man cared about. And I can take them from you.”

“Let him go, Megan,” Matt tried, his left hand out in a placating gesture. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure I do,” Megan huffed. “What else I got in life? I’m almost fifty years old. My family is gone, our money is gone, and everyone I’ve ever known blew up two nights ago.”

“ _You_ blew them up,” Matt tried, taking a step closer.

“ _IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE YOU_!” Megan screamed, and strangely, Matt sensed Father Lantom’s heartrate begin to settle down the more she raged. “You were supposed to be in the office and instead it was your friend, the Pillsbury Doughboy!”

“Your guys shoulda done their homework a little better,” Matt shrugged.

“You were supposed to get blown up in the church! Poor, blind Matt Murdock, senseless victim of faulty wiring in the reconstruction from the Battle for New York.”

“But I wasn’t,” Matt pointed out.

“The Devil’s not here to protect you now, Murdock,” Megan growled. Matt could sense the sneer curling her lips. “Now it’s just you.”

“Maybe that’s enough,” Matt said quietly and with a flick of his wrist unfurled his cane, the point of it cracking Megan under her chin, snapping her head up and sending her stumbling backwards, the weapon in her hand discharging harmlessly against the wall.

“Go, Father!” Matt ordered, his tone harsh, abrupt, as he focused in on Megan.

He could hear Lantom hurrying around the corner and moved forward, sensing when Megan leveled her weapon on him. He sliced the air with his cane, catching her on the forearm and sending the weapon skidding across the floor. With a roar of outrage, Megan launched herself at him, slamming her body into his, and driving him to the floor. Matt blocked her initial blows with his right arm, but her knees caught him in at his cracked ribs and he lost his breath.

“You little shit!” Megan screamed at him. “You ruined my life!”

Gritting his teeth, Matt shoved upwards with his left arm, feeling his stitches tear, his wounded muscles howling in protest, as he pushed her from him and rolled to his knees. Wounded, it took him a bit longer, but he was able to subdue her, pinning her arms to the ground, his knee on her hips, keeping her immobile as he picked up on the sirens rushing their way.

“ _You_ ruined your life, Megan,” Matt panted. “You let bitterness turn you into…this.”

“And what are you, Murdock?” she spat at him. “A blind lawyer? What is that supposed to be…irony?”

Matt didn’t reply.

“You’re nothing,” Megan growled. “Just like your old man. I saw him fight, standing next to my Pop, watching him take hit after hit, dropping to the mat every time they told him to, and walking away with the money he made from being a loser.”

“Until he didn’t,” Matt growled in response. “Until he won and took everything back. Everything your people took from him.”

Megan struggled beneath him, but Matt held firm, using his weight to keep her pinned.

“You’re going away for a long time,” Matt informed her. “See, that’s what being a lawyer gets me. I can see the future, blind or not, and I see a lot of…orange in store for you.”

“You son of a bitch!” Megan spat as Matt heard the cops pour into the church.

“Maybe,” Matt nodded. “But I’m the son of a bitch putting you behind bars.”

Matt felt a hand at his shoulder and he eased back, listening as Megan Sweeney was cuffed, read her rights, and lifted from the floor.

“Sargent Mahoney?” Matt called, finding Brett’s heartbeat among the cluster of people.

“Yeah – oh, dude,” Brett stopped short as he rounded on Matt. “She got you with something. Your shoulder’s bleeding.”

“I’ll be okay,” Matt told him, locking his knees so that he didn’t sway. “This woman is responsible for the church fire down on 44th two nights ago.”

“You got proof of that?”

Matt nodded. “Check her clothes,” he said. A wave of pain shivered across him and he took a slow breath, biting back a groan. “You’ll find traces of Semtex. I’m willing to bet there’s more back at her place.”

“You going to be okay, Murdock?” Brett asked.

“Where’s Foggy?” Matt asked, though he’d heard his friend approach two heartbeats ago.

“I’m here,” Foggy called from the edge of the pillar. “Only you could get me this far inside a church, Matt.”

“I’ll be okay,” Matt told Brett Mahoney, nodding as the policeman left with his arrest. He rotated toward Foggy. “You see Father Lantom?”

“He’s sitting over on the first bench looking like he saw behind the curtain and didn’t like the Wizard,” Foggy told him. “You are bleeding again, by the way. Claire’s going to be pissed.”

“I’ll handle it,” Matt told him. “And it’s called a pew.”

“You say potato…,” Foggy muttered following him around the cops to where Father Lantom was sitting.

“Father,” Matt greeted, easing down.

“Matthew,” Father Lantom greeted.

They sat quietly for a moment, Foggy sitting close but saying nothing, as the police wrapped up their arrest and took Megan Sweeney out to their squad cars and then on to the station. When it was once more quiet in the church, Matt looked toward where Lantom sat.

“Remember what I told you? About the Murdock boys having the devil in them?”

“I do,” Lantom nodded, paying as little attention to Foggy’s presence as Matt.

“This was about my father,” Matt informed him. “About the reason he died.”

“I gathered that,” Lantom said, then leaned forward, the wooden pew creaking with his movement. “But it’s not about _you_ , Matthew.”

Matt tilted his head. “I don’t….”

“The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer for the iniquity of the son. The righteousness of the righteous shall be upon himself, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself.” Lantom leaned back. “Ezekiel 18:20. That one I do remember.”

Matt caught his lower lip between his teeth as he thought about how to reply. “Father, I’m not a righteous man.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lantom challenged. “You saved my life just now. You’ve saved countless others.”

Matt brought his head up and heard Foggy draw in a sharp breath. “What do you mean?”

“Confession brings many things to light, Matthew. Among them…regret and gratitude.”

Matt looked down. “My father was not wicked. He…was dangerous, but only to those he needed to be.”

“Like father, like son,” Lantom said calmly.

Matt shook his head. “I’m not like him,” he argued. “He sacrificed everything so that I could have a life, a chance.”

Matt sense Lantom leaning forward and tensed. When the priest gently rested a hand on his wounded shoulder, Matt winced, but didn’t pull away.

“This blood…are you going to sit there and tell me, a priest, that it’s not from a wound gained while helping others?”

Matt remained quiet.

“You are a good man, Matthew,” Lantom said, pushing to his feet. “You may think you happened upon me – this situation – by chance, but I know differently.”

“What do you know, Father?” Matt asked, not lifting his head.

“I know when someone is being guided,” Lantom said, slipping from the pew to stand in the aisle. “I know when they have a purpose.”

“Father—“

“And for the forgiveness you seek – for the things you’re about to do – you need only ask,” Lantom replied, then moved toward the back of the sanctuary, disappearing behind a door.

Matt sat quietly, his face turned away from where he sensed Foggy’s gaze on him, trying to put parameters around what he’d just witnessed, what he’d just heard. He heard Foggy slide closer to him and grew tense, waiting for his friend to say something. It surprised him to feel a rectangular shape slip into his hands.

“What--?”

“You call her this time,” Foggy said softly. “She’s heard enough from me lately.”

It was his burner phone, Matt realized, turning the object over in his hands.

“By the way,” Foggy said, standing and moving around to the aisle. “Pillsbury Doughboy? That bitch is going down.”

“It was a totally unfair assessment,” Matt agreed.

“Bet your ass,” Foggy declared. “I happen to be quite solid, as she should remember when she friggin’ Tased me.”

“We’ll help her remember,” Matt started to rise, felt his world shift with remarkable speed, and sat back down.

“I’d say twenty-five to life should help drive the point home,” Foggy muttered. “You callin’ Claire or what?”

Matt chuffed, then opened his phone, hitting the number he’d assigned to Claire.

_“I literally just got to work.”_

“Can I come by?”

_“What did you do now?”_

“Saved a priest from a psychopath,” Matt replied and heard Foggy mutter, “That’s about the truth of it.”

_“Well, since it was a priest, I suppose I can give you a pass. Ask for me when you get to the front desk.”_

“It’s not bad.”

_“If you’re calling me, it’s bad enough.”_

“Maybe I miss the sound of your voice.”

He heard her pause, take a breath, heard the stretch of her muscles as she smiled, then tried to cover it. _“Come here so I can…check you out.”_

“We’ll be there in ten.”


	6. Epilogue

It was a muggy evening; the rain from the day hadn’t quite vacated the sidewalks and the air hung thick with it. Foggy made his way to his apartment from the subway, cell phone pressed against his ear as he listened to Karen read the message she had just found caught in the mail slot of their office door.

_“…only one man who knew both you and your father. If you’re half as smart as they say, you’ll figure it out and find him before he finishes his calling and heads on home.”_

Foggy huffed, shaking his head. “Told you she was a psycho bitch.”

_“This is about that priest, right? The one Matt saved last week?”_

“His priest, yeah. She’d mentioned a message.”

_“Well, she should have maybe taped it to the door or something. I wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t dropped my keys.”_

“Do me a favor and put it in Matt’s office, will you?”

_“Want me to put a note on it or something?”_

“Yeah, just…tell him what you told me. About how you found it.” Foggy heard a siren scream past him and followed the flashing lights with his eyes. “Hey, Karen…you got plans tonight?”

_“Haagen-Dazs and Jimmy Fallon. Why?”_

“Feel like maybe meeting me for a drink?”

_“Josie’s?”_

“Maybe something a little more…uptown?”

_“You got a client you want to impress?”_ Karen teased him.

“Nah,” Foggy shook his head. “Just kind of wanted to be with a friend.”

Karen was quiet for a moment. He heard her take a breath. _“Tell me where and when.”_

After relaying the location, he called Matt, knowing before he hit the ‘send’ button that he’d get his friend’s voicemail. But something in him needed to make sure Matt knew there were still real people in his life. People who saw _him_. Who missed _him_. Who needed him to be simply Matt Murdock, and no one else.

“Hey, buddy,” he greeted when Matt’s voicemail beeped. “Taking Karen over to Gotham for a few drinks. Thought maybe you’d join us? Wanted something different than Josie’s tonight…that deposition was…well, kinda brutal. No worries if not, just…would be good to see you.”

It took him two subway stops to get to the Gotham Bar and Grill. He had always scoffed at the name of the bar, knowing they thought themselves clever with the way they named it after a superhero’s stomping grounds. Now he felt the true irony: Hell’s Kitchen had a real superhero in their midst and didn’t even know it. Not all of them, anyway.

He found a table near the front of the bar, toward where the wide windows were opened to the street, pulling in fresh air and traffic noise. When Karen stepped through the doors, Foggy waved her over, a drink already ordered.

“You okay?” Karen asked as she shrugged out of her raincoat. “You sounded decidedly un-Foggy-like on the phone.”

“We deposed Megan Sweeney today,” Foggy told her. “And we had to cover…y’know…when they took me.”

Karen’s blue eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Foggy.”

“The thing was, I was okay,” Foggy said. “I was, honest. Until we started talking about…Daredevil.”

“He saved you, right?” Karen nodded, taking a sip of her drink, her eyes level on his.

“He didn’t just save me,” Foggy said. “He bled for me. He kicked ass, yeah, but…he also got his ass kicked. For me.”

“But…he’s been seen out,” Karen argued. “He must not have been hurt that bad if he’s out there, stopping the bad guys.”

Foggy huffed slightly and stared into the dancing amber hues of his drink. “He doesn’t have magical powers, you know. He’s just a regular guy. He bleeds.”

“I know,” Karen said, downing her drink in one gulp and setting the empty glass on the bar top. “That night…all those months ago…when he saved my life? I saw him bleed. And…it didn’t stop him.”

“Nothing much seems to,” Foggy sighed, signaling the bar tender for more. “He just…he’s like the friggin’ energizer bunny. He keeps going.”

“What’s this really about, Foggy?” Karen asked, resting her arm on the bar and leaning close to him.

Foggy turned the wide-mouthed shot glass around with his fingertips. “I’m just…it worries me that a regular guy is out there, doing all this shit, getting his ass beat, and…no one seems to care.”

“We care,” Karen reminded him, a hand resting on his forearm. “I’m sure there are a lot more like us.”

Foggy was suddenly, fiercely reminded of the four people who appeared from the shadows and helped them carry Matt to Claire’s apartment.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Foggy nodded. “I guess I was just…rattled.”

“It’s understandable,” Karen said, rubbing his arm consolingly. “You went through a lot because of that woman.”

“Matt went through more,” Foggy sighed. “Can you believe she actually tried to _blame_ him for her dad losing fifty grand? Like killing Matt’s dad was nothing.”

“People are complicated creatures, Foggy,” Karen sighed, sipping her drink. “Where is Matt tonight? Maybe we could get him to come out with us this time.”

Foggy started to open his mouth and dish out an excuse when the TV behind the bar started to report a story from earlier in the evening.

“Hey,” he called to the bartender. “Can you turn this up?”

The bartender obliged and Foggy and Karen both focused on the report of a human trafficking ring thwarted and the perpetrators being arrested by Sargent Brett Mahoney of the 32nd precinct.

_“Reports are coming in that the vigilante dubbed Daredevil was responsible for subduing the criminals and alerting the police. Preliminary reports show the masked man escaping police detection by scaling the buildings in a movement called parkour, enabling him to evade the police yet again.”_

“Huh,” Foggy huffed, supping his drink. “Human trafficking.”

“And you thought the man in black was a bad guy,” Karen teased him.

Foggy tilted his head. “Greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.”

“What, so you don’t think Daredevil is real?” Karen laughed, pointing to the television.

“I just think we shouldn’t make assumptions where Daredevil is concerned,” Foggy shrugged. “That’s all.”

“You gonna call Matt?” Karen asked.

“Nah,” Foggy smiled. “I think he’s busy.”

“He have a girlfriend or something,” Karen asked, and Foggy didn’t miss the forced casualness of her tone.

“No,” he shook his head. “No girlfriend. I just think he has some things to take care of tonight.”

A few shouts from the street level caught his attention and he looked out through the opened portion of the bar front. Following the gazes of the people at street level, Foggy looked up, realizing that Karen had followed his gaze. He could see a blur of red as Daredevil leapt from the building where the Gotham bar was housed to the adjoining building.

“There he goes,” Foggy said softly, his eyes still up. “Chasing down the bad guys.”

He couldn’t help but think about the fact that a week hadn’t been long enough to heal Matt’s ribs and just yesterday his friend was still holding his left arm carefully against his side, the bullet wound not even close to repaired.

Karen patted his shoulder. “He does it his way,” she said quietly. “You, me, and Matt? We do it ours.”

Foggy smiled softly. “You’re right.”

“We may not be superheroes, Foggy,” Karen said, a confident smile at home on her pretty face. “But we can be heroes.”

“You gonna start singing David Bowie songs on me now?” Foggy teased.

Karen smirked. “I thought a Pirates of Penzance fan like yourself would have picked Moulin Rouge.”

“Okay, that was _one_ Pirate’s song,” Foggy protested. “And it happens to be kind of awesome.”

“Like your singing,” Karen teased.

“I have an excellent singing voice,” Foggy protested, grinning at her. “In my shower.”

“Hey,” came a voice behind them, one Foggy did not expect to hear for at least another twelve hours. He turned, shocked, to see Matt standing behind them, hands gripping the top of his cane until his knuckles were white, tie gone, hair disheveled, and lip bleeding a bit, but… _there_.

“Hey!” Foggy greeted, stopping just short of clapping his left shoulder. “I thought you had…stuff… tonight!”

Matt smiled at him and Foggy felt knots throughout his body loosen at the sight. “I got done early,” he said. “Got your message…thought maybe I’d join you.”

Foggy saw in his friend’s face, in the lines of tension masked by the dark glasses, in the way he held his body tense and careful, the unspoken words: … _like a normal person._ He slid one stool over and carefully guided Matt forward until he friend was seated between himself and Karen.

“I’m glad you’re here, Matt,” Karen said, smiling. “Feels more like…family, when you’re around.”

“Thanks,” Matt smiled, shyly, as Foggy signaled the bartender.

“Your lip’s bleeding, though,” Karen said, reaching out with a napkin to dab at his lip. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Foggy smiled at him, so relieved to have him close by, safe, he didn’t mind the way Karen stared at him as though Matt hung the moon.

“Looks like we’re going to be putting away the last of the creeps responsible for your dad’s murder,” Foggy said, sliding Matt’s drink within his reach when it was delivered.

Matt nodded. “Feels kind of weird.”

“How so?” Karen asked.

“I haven’t thought about them in…years,” Matt confessed. “And in the space of a weekend, they managed to threaten every one close to me.”

“Kind of makes you wonder who else is lying in wait, huh?” Foggy muttered, thinking of Fisk, and of all the other people Matt had helped put way.

“Kind of,” Matt agreed, face down toward his drink.

The news report played a repeat of their earlier footage of Daredevil impossibly scaling walls to slip free of detection while the cops cuffed the traffickers.

“At least he’s still in play,” Karen said, nodding toward the TV. “I think we’d be in a lot more trouble if Daredevil wasn’t out there, keeping an eye on Hell’s Kitchen.”

Foggy looked at Matt, watching as his friend’s mouth tipped up in an involuntary, grateful grin.

“I’ll drink to that,” Foggy lifted his tumbler, waiting until Matt and Karen clicked their glasses against his. “To Daredevil,” he declared. “May he be swift, bulletproof, find the bad guys, and most of all, stay alive.”

“To Daredevil,” Karen echoed.

Matt just smiled, but Foggy felt as though he were caught up in the secrecy of that smile. His friend may be sitting next to him for the moment, but tomorrow night there would be someone else, something else. And as long as there was breath in Matt’s body, he would find it, fight it, and do his best to stop it.

Foggy found himself having to swallow the instant panic that thought triggered.

“And to the avocados,” Matt spoke up before anyone could drink. “Who make sure that anything Daredevil does actually sticks and who put the bad guys away.”

“To putting the bad guys away,” Foggy echoed, then swallowed his drink.

Matt Murdock was his best friend. Matt Murdock was Daredevil. And as long as Foggy Nelson had breath in _his_ body, he was going to do his level best to make sure Matt Murdock stayed both.

Because the city might need Matt in that mask, but Foggy Nelson needed his friend.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading; I truly hope you enjoyed. It was fun delving into this new world. If I didn’t crash and burn, there may be more. You guys will decide. Regardless, I appreciate your time.
> 
> In the meantime, I’m returning to my favorite swashbuckling heroes in a new Musketeer fic. Once that’s done, depending on how Supernatural S10 ends, there may be another SPN fic. Hope to see you there!


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